Infrangible Road
by Dayspring
Summary: An AU where John stays in Lawrence and raises the boys.
1. Chapter 1

_The Road goes ever on and on  
Down from the door where it began.  
Now far ahead the Road has gone,  
And I must follow, if I can,  
Pursuing it with eager feet,  
Until it joins some larger way  
Where many paths and errands meet.  
And whither then? I cannot say._

~J. R. R. Tolkien

* * *

1984

* * *

"So when all else fails, try a beheading, right?" John Winchester jerked his head sharply, sighing with relief as his neck cracked. He hadn't studied this hard since boot camp. Who knew there were so many kinds of supernatural "things" out there? Hell, who knew supernatural things existed at all, that stuff actually did go _bump in the night?_

For most of his life he'd been blind to the truth, and would've happily remained blind, if...if it hadn't taken Mary. Mary, his beautiful queen, who'd been sliced open and burnt on the ceiling of their all-American home, in the nursery where their second beautiful prince lay in his crib, across the hall from the room where their first beautiful prince lay sleeping peacefully.

A fairytale. He'd been the king in a goddamned fairytale. Then the demons and ogres and ghosts and other evil shit had come out of the woodwork, and his fairytale had turned from Disney to Grimm.

Now, he was being trained to be a hunter--which was nothing as simple as tracking and killing, nothing as simple as destroying the enemy as he had in the Marines. It was a matter of discipline, of knowing what killed what, of recognizing which evil was at play. It was a matter of investigating, researching, having the right tools at hand, and if not, devising the _right_ tool. Preparation was paramount but tedious, the hunt itself dangerous and often done in the dark. But he could do it. He _would_ do it. Mary had been his. She'd said so over and over again, even when he'd had doubts himself. Then she'd been taken away. And something had to pay for that.

"Beheading works--if it can be cut," Daniel Elkins explained as he jotted something down in his journal. The white-haired hunter was hunched over what should've been a kitchen table, but was now a repository of various books, relics, and weapons. "That's why you need to make sure your blades--machetes or axes are your best bets--are coated with silver, and being blessed doesn't hurt either. Caleb can set you up with blades and other weapons. He's young, but he knows his stuff and has some really interesting contacts." He scratched his head, then wrote something else in the journal.

A journal. It seemed all hunters kept a damn diary. Yeah, it made sense to keep a list of what worked and what didn't but Elkins made it seem a sin not to write down every single detail. Elkins. The man was basically a vampire hunter now, but apparently back in the day, he'd gone up against just about everything that was out there. John found him gruff but knowledgeable, and was grateful Elkins was willing to take on a greenhorn. God, he'd learned so much since going to that psychic, Missouri Mosely, with questions about Mary's death.

No matter what others said, he'd seen her sliced opened and burning on the ceiling, and he'd known that wasn't--normal. So yes, he'd gone to see a psychic. She'd led him to Jim Murphy, a pastor in Blue Earth, Minnesota, who'd taught him that if there was a heaven with all its angels, then why not a hell with all its demons. Eye-opening, scary shit that made him question everything around him. Speaking of--

"Think Pastor Jim will bless my blades?"

"Sure. Sometime next week. It'll take him that long to recover from the shit May Day throws at you. Never know how many pagans there are until one of their days come around. Messing with old gods is just downright stupid."

John sat up, well, as much as he could on the battered sofa that acted as his bed and as his primary seat at Elkins' place, since most flat surfaces in the cabin were covered in books, papers, and various hunting paraphernalia. "May Day?" His nose crinkled in confusion. "That's coming up soon?"

"Um, it is if you call today 'soon', John."

"Today is--" John paled and scrambled to the edge of the cushion. "No, it can't be. May Day is May the first, right?"

"Give the man a fuckin' gold star." Elkins looked up from his journal. "What's wrong?"

John rubbed a hand across his face, frowning at the stubble that scratched his palm. Yeah, he'd lost track of time for sure. "My son's birthday is--" he looked down at his watch, "--in a few hours."

"Hell, is that all? He'll have another one next year." Elkins buried himself in his writing again.

"Not another _first_ birthday," John murmured softly. He stood and looked around for his things. He hadn't spread out too far, understanding he was in another man's territory. "If I hit the road now, I should make it by morning." Eight hours or so of hard driving should get him there early enough so his kids wouldn't think he hadn't forgotten about them.

"Thought we were heading out to that salt-and-burn you researched?"

"Later. Hannah Burton's not killing anything, just scaring a few adulterous men--and quite frankly, if she makes their dicks shrivel up and fall off, I couldn't care less. I'm going to see my boys. It's been what? A month, six weeks, since I've been back?" Shit. He'd missed Easter. Mary and Dean had loved Easter, and he'd loved them loving it, even if _he_ was the one who'd had to clean the dye off the table with bleach _every_ year.

Elkins leaned back in his chair, narrow eyes focusing on John. "You know, you got the makings of a good hunter, John, but you're gonna have to get your priorities straight. Yeah, other hunters are daddies, but they got some woman back home doing most of the raising. You wanna do this, you gonna have to find them boys a mama."

"They have a mama," John spat out as he closed his duffel bag. "And they have a daddy."

"Who can't even remember a birthday."

"Fuck you," John said, his voice low but harsh. The apprenticeship was over. He walked out of the cabin without a backward look.

He drove to the border of Colorado before he stopped at a truck center and dropped his head against the steering wheel of his '67 Impala. Get his priorities straight? He had them fucking straight! Stepping out of the car, he paced the surrounding empty parking spaces, scared that if he stayed next to the Impala he'd end up putting his fist through a window. How dare Elkins insinuate that he had to choose. Choose what? There was no choice to be had! He certainly hadn't chosen to lose Mary. His wife was dead! Her killer had to be put down! Dean and Sammy were just gonna have to--

Oh, God. He was putting Mary's killer ahead of her boys. Fuck. Mary would've handed him his ass for that. She'd been a sweet woman most of the time. Easy-going. Full of laughter. But... He thought back to the time he'd been in a rush to pick her up from some appointment or another, and he hadn't buckled Dean into the car seat properly. By the time she got through with him, he could strap the boy in as quick as the Marines had taught him to assemble an M16. He'd taken to calling her Drill Sergeant Mary when she got on his case afterwards, had even bought her a whistle which she'd given to Dean a few years later. A whistle that was just as burnt as she was now.

A sob escaped and he dropped his head to the top of the car. He couldn't do this. He couldn't let this obsession keep him from taking care of Mary's princes. He couldn't betray her memory like that. Jim was a pastor. That Singer guy owned a salvage yard. Apparently, it was possible to be a part-time hunter. Yeah. He could take his time, learn the ropes, then when the boys were out on their own, he could go back to it.

Mary's killer was going to have to wait; he had two boys to raise.

*

Dawn found him crossing into the city limits of Lawrence, Kansas, and he was soon pulling into the yard of his best friend and garage partner Mike Guenther. Mike and his wife, Kate, had taken in all three of the remaining Winchesters after the fire. They'd said they understood when John took off on his wild quest, but he was sure they hadn't thought he'd be gone so often and for so long. Nice way to treat your friends, he told himself. Saddle them with a baby who missed his mama and a young child who was still so traumatized that he rarely spoke.

Right. He owed Dean the biggest apology of them all. He'd been there for the boy's birthday in January, but, hell, he hadn't really been there. He hadn't wanted to deal with the silence and the pain in the eyes that were so much like Mary's. He couldn't even remember what he'd given the boy. Something Kate had bought, he thought.

"John?"

He startled awake, surprised to find he'd fallen asleep. "Mike, how are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that? You're sleeping in the driveway."

He looked at his friend, dressed in pajamas and a robe. Obviously, he'd just stumbled out to get the paper. "It was early when I got here. Didn't want to disturb the house."

Mike smiled. "Should've known you'd make it in time for Sam's birthday. The boys'll be glad to see you."

John gave a self-deprecating laugh. "You sure about that?"

"Well, at least Dean won't give you grief about your absence."

That wasn't good. "He still not talking?"

Mike shrugged. "He sings."

John's eyebrows shot up.

"He sings to Sam; he ignores the rest of us."

"I don't know why you don't just shoot me." John sighed. "Leaving the boys with you like that, it isn't right. You and I both know it."

"Kate and I adore the boys, John. And you...you needed a break to get your head together. How's that working out for you?"

John nodded and bent down to pick up the paper. "I'm good. Save the real estate section for me, okay?"

"Really?"

"Mary'd want her boys to have a home."

Mike gave him a look, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Come on in the house. The boys are still asleep but Kate has put on the coffee."

John gave Kate a hug, then walked softly into the room the boys shared. He looked first at the twin bed and found it empty. So Dean was still up to his old tricks. He looked in the crib and found his oldest son just where he expected to: wrapped protectively around his baby brother. John felt something burst in his chest and tears flooded his eyes. How could he have.... He'd abandoned his sweet babies. Why? To chase some damn fire-starter that he might not ever find? To chase a dream, when the reality he needed was right here in front of him? He'd been a fool. But not anymore.

Never again.

*****

"Well, kiddo?" John opened the door of the Impala and looked as his eldest son. This was the third house they'd looked at. At the first one, Dean had refused to get out of the car. At the second one, Dean and Sammy--Sammy who was _walking! _--had refused to cross the threshold. The realtor had shaken her head in annoyance when John had told her flat out that that wasn't the house for them. One thing he'd learned from his hunting lessons was that a child was far more open to the supernatural. If Dean and Sam had problems with a house, they probably had good reason, even if they didn't know what it was.

Or they didn't want to leave Mike and Kate's.

Maybe the realtor had a point.

Dean held up his arms and John unbuckled him from the booster seat, before unhooking Sam. The realtor stood impatiently by the open door as they approached the house. Dean tugged him inside and Sam blew a bubble as they stepped across the threshold. So far, so good. It was a ranch style house, single story, three good-sized bedrooms, a master bath, hardwood floors.

John figured he could drill a trench in all the doorways and fill them with salt. And Jim had mentioned someone he knew who made protective symbols that could be hung on the walls like that nouveau art shit. Yeah, the house was definitely defensible.

"Dean? Sammy?" His kids had wandered off while he'd gazed speculatively at the walls. He found them on the back terrace, Dean sitting on a step with Sammy pinned securely between his legs. He sat down beside them. "This place okay? Think we can make this our new home?"

Dean nodded, then reached out to pat his father's arm. "Home, Daddy." He smiled when Sam burbled in agreement.

John looked out across the yard, envisioning a swing set, one of those wooden jungle gyms, a patch of concrete next to the garage which was the right height for a basketball hoop, and of course a grill--a man had to have something for himself. He leaned over and dropped a kiss on Dean's head and then on Sammy's. "Looks like we're home, boys."

*****

"You decide yet, Deano?" John himself was leaning toward the bed that resembled a car over the bed that resembled...well, a bed. But he wasn't going to be sleeping on it. He'd be sleeping on a full-size mattress, which was just big enough for him. No use in having room to feel around for Mary when Mary was never going to be there.

The salesman had convinced him to get Sam a crib that would eventually convert to a junior bed. So only Dean's sleeping quarters were left to be decorated. Dean tugged on his hand and John bent down; Dean was very selective in whom he let hear his voice. The child psychologist, who they had visited all of three times before everyone involved collectively agreed it wasn't working, said that Dean would talk when he was ready. It _could_ happen suddenly, but more than likely, it would be a slow process. His darling boy was apparently taking lessons from snails. "What's it gonna be, buddy?"

"The regular bed," Dean said, surprising John. "I already have a car."

John laughed. The Impala was indeed Dean's. The minute the boy saw it, he'd claimed it as his own. When John had driven it home, instead of the two year old coupe he and Mary had agreed on, he'd told her it was Dean's, and they were just keeping it in working order until he came of age. Mary had rolled her eyes and said that yes, she agreed it'd been bought for a little boy. Dean never realized she hadn't meant him. "That you do, son."

The beds were delivered the next day.

*****

John knew it was ridiculous to be so nervous. He was a grown man. He'd served a tour in Vietnam. He'd tangled with ghosts and poltergeists and, damn, he'd never forget that clusterfuck with the werewolves he, Jim, and Bobby had survived back in July. But he'd never felt like this. Never wanted so much to go and spill his nutritious breakfast into the toilet.

And it wasn't even _his_ first day of school.

"You ready to go, boys?" he called toward the bathroom. Dean had insisted on cleaning up Sammy after Sammy's "enthusiastic" breakfast. John figured Dean didn't trust him to do it properly, and there was no way Dean was going to show up at his first day of kindergarten with a baby brother who was covered in dried milk.

How the hell could he miss Mary, when Dean was exactly like her?

Then again, how could he not?

"We're ready, Dad. I was just splainin' to Sammy that he has to be a good boy for you today while I go learn how to read him his bedtime stories."

"And did Sammy promise to behave?" He wasn't sure whether it was because he went AWOL those few lost months after Mary or some mysterious brotherly connection, but Sam listened to Dean a hell of a lot better than he did to John. It was annoying. And sad. And would probably change now that Sam would be spending more alone time with him while Dean went to school.

Jesus Christ. His boy was going to school.

"Got your backpack?"

"It's on my bed." Dean raced back to the room he shared with Sam. John had given each boy his own room and had forbidden Dean to climb into the crib. That first night when he'd gone to check on them, Sam had been securely wrapped in Dean's arms--in Dean's bed. Giving in to the apparent natural order of things, John had moved Sam's crib into Dean's room. Within sight of each other, they'd stayed in their respective beds that night and every night since. John had made Sam's room into an office, fully aware he'd probably have to give it up once Dean hit puberty.

The drive to school was way too short. Dean, quiet, shy Dean, walked up to his teacher, held out his hand, and said, "Hi, I'm Dean Winchester. I'm in your class this year. You're very pretty. When will we get started on reading and stuff?"

John shed more tears than either of his boys as he and Sammy left Dean to his learning.


	2. Chapter 2

1991

* * *

"Sammy, what are you doing in here?" Dean hissed from the doorway to their dad's office. Sam knew, he effin' well knew, he wasn't allowed in the office. And how had he gotten in? The door was supposed to be locked. Okay, so maybe teaching Sam how to pick a lock hadn't been one of his brightest ideas. But last summer had been so boring....

"Dean, is Dad crazy?" his eight-year-old brother asked as if he wasn't violating the Prime Directive: Do NOT enter Dad's Inner Sanctum. And not only was he _in_ the Inner Sanctum, he had made himself at home--feet tucked under him as he sat in Dad's leather chair, Coke can on the desk. At least he was using a piece of paper as a coaster.

"What? No, Dad's not crazy, Sam. What's crawled up your ass about him now? And get your dirty feet out of the chair." He'd heard the whispers of advice from his dad's friends, that twelve and beyond were the difficult years for boys. But, hell, at eight, Sam was twice the pain in the ass than he could ever be. Sam questioned everything, from the type of toothpaste they used to his current bedtime to the color of paint on the wall.

"Well, according to his diary," Sam held up a battered leather book, "he goes out on the weekends chasing ghosts and vampires and witches. So, yeah, I'm asking if he's nuts."

Dean wanted to scream, but screaming wasn't cool. Dad was going to be so pissed, and he was going to blame Dean. The situation had "Oh, Dean, how could you" written all over it. Baby brothers were a bitch! "No, Sam. Dad's not nuts." It was too late to lie.

"But--" Sam shook the journal as evidence.

"He's _not_ nuts--because ghosts and vampires and witches exist, dude." Dean slumped onto the corner of the desk, readying himself for the questions his brother was bound to ask.

"I hope this isn't hereditary."

Hereditary? "Been studying your vocabulary words I see," Dean said dryly.

"Cut the crap, Dean. You know these things aren't real."

"Strange things are happening all over, Sammy. I mean, look, the Atlanta Braves made it to the World Series. Dark times are upon the earth," he joked.

"Dean," Sam whined.

"It's all real, I swear." Dean picked up a rosary from the desk and fingered the beads. "The supernatural--it's out there, everywhere. It's a mind game. People won't see what they don't want to see, and the dark things love that."

"But Dad sees?"

"Yeah. He and others, like Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim, they see the supernatural and they fight it. That's what they hunt on the weekends. That's why Dad comes back messed up sometimes." Pastor Jim had taught him how to put in stitches. He hated it and all the first aid crap he'd had to learn.

"How come Dad sees it?"

Dean sighed. Sammy and his questions. At least Dad wasn't going to have to answer them. Dad didn't take well to talking about Mom. "You know about the fire that killed Mom?" It was never spoken about directly, but Sam was a smart kid and he nodded. "A demon caused the fire."

"What? No, Dean. I looked it up in the library. The paper said it was an electrical fire."

"That's fire department speak for 'we don't know what the hell happened.' Learn to read between the lines, baby brother." Especially if you're gonna be looking at stuff you weren't supposed to.

"I'm not a baby!"

"Well, you're whining like one." Dean wondered how mad Dad would be if he came home to find Sam duct-taped in a corner. He'd feed and water him regularly. Bathroom breaks too, because he'd cleaned that ass enough for one lifetime.

"Jerk!"

Definitely tape over the mouth. "Bitch!"

Sam sighed, like Dean couldn't tell it was just another whine. "So, you really believe this stuff is out there?"

"Yeah."

"Just because Dad believes?"

Dean shrugged. "I've seen the damage it's left on him and the others. I--I think I might've seen an outline in the window just before your nursery exploded."

"My nursery? Mom--Mom died in my nursery?"

Oh, shit. There'd probably be nightmares now. And the waking of Dad. And questions. And answers. And lots of laps. Mom hadn't liked corporal punishment, and Dad liked to think they were _both_ still raising the kids, so he'd taken a page out of the Corps manual. KP duty and training. Makes a boy strong and highly unlikely to ever commit the same sin twice.

Of course, if it's the right sin, you only need to do it once.

Since the damage couldn't get any worse, he put down the rosary, pulled up a chair and told the whole story to Sam. It was the day after Thanksgiving, so he knew Dad would be at the shop forever. The men in town dropped their women off at the mall, or were left home on their own while their women drove themselves to the mall, so naturally they took their cars to the auto shop and watched football on Dad's thirteen-inch (yeah, if you squinted and turned your head) TV. Good times.

"So, a demon killed our mom." Dean nodded. "And Aunt Missouri told Dad and sent him to see Pastor Jim and that's why we got all these aunts and uncles who aren't kin to us in the least bit?"

Dean took the last sip from Sam's Coke. "Right. What did you think? Grandpa Winchester got around a lot?"

Sam looked down, drawing invisible figures on the desktop with his finger. "No, but...Tony Holloway's mama's divorced and whenever she gets a new boyfriend, Tony has to call him uncle."

"Sam, no! Gag! Eww! You can't--" Dean looked at Sam in horror, then noticed his brother's giggling.

"Gotcha!"

"Excuse me while I go get the Drano to clean out my brain." Dean shuddered one last time for good measure. Then he focused on the situation at hand. You start something, you better be ready to finish it Dad always said. "You okay with this? I mean, I know it's a lot to handle. Dad didn't want you finding out for a while."

"Why? Why is it okay for you to know and not me? And don't say it's because you're older. I bet you knew before you were eight."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I did. But I _needed_ to know, Sam, so that I could protect us when Dad was gone. It was fine if Pastor Jim or Aunt Missouri babysat us, but when it was someone else, or we stayed with Uncle Mike and Aunt Kate, I needed to do--stuff."

"Stuff like what?"

"Put salt across all the entryways to the house, the room where we sleep, that kinda stuff."

"Salt? What's that for?"

Dean spent the rest of the afternoon teaching Sam all he knew about the supernatural. By the time their dad made it home, the journal was back in the desk, the office was locked.

And Sam, thankfully, did not dream.

*****

Sam glanced over the top of his book at Dean, who was sprawled on the sofa with a comic book. "What's a suck up, Dean?" he asked tentatively.

Dean didn't even bother to look across the room at him. "Who called you a suck up, Sammy?"

"Davy Allen."

"And why did this Davy Allen call you a suck up?"

"Because I was asking the teacher questions in the class."

Dean flipped to the next page. "And why were you asking questions?"

"Because I wanted to know!"

"Then you weren't being a suck up and Davy Allen is a dickhead."

"Oh." Sam tried to get back into his story, but was still confused. "Huh?"

"Remember last summer? We were at Pastor Jim's and you let Mrs. Hanson's bratty grandson bother you all day at the picnic because you knew Mrs. Hanson had made a chocolate cake."

"Yeah?"

"You were being a suck up."

Sam fingered the pages of his book. "Because I did it to get something I wanted?"

"Yeah."

"But how could asking the teacher questions be sucking up?" He slumped back into Dad's recliner, wondering when he'd be old enough not to have to ask Dean these questions.

"Because she'd like you and give you good grades."

"But I already get good grades."

"Which is proof you weren't sucking up. By the way, if I catch you saying _dickhead_, I'm gonna beat your ass."

"Yeah, yeah." Boy, he couldn't wait until he was old enough to use the words Dean used. And he'd love to tell Davy that he was a dickhead, but-- Wait a minute, Dean said not to let him _catch_ him using the word... Before he could plan exactly what he was going to say to Davy when he got back to school, the phone rang. He wasn't surprised when Dean jumped up to answer it in the kitchen. It was _always_ for Dean and usually it was some dumb girl, which was why he went into the other room. It was a short conversation, followed by Dean stomping back into the room and flopping on the sofa.

"Your girlfriend of the week break up with you early?" Sam asked with a giggle.

"No, Dorkface, that was Dylan. The crew's putting together a pick-up game down at the school."

Sam nodded. During the Christmas break, the high school had decided to open up its gymnasium as a "beneficial distraction" and a "place of safety" for the neighborhood kids. Of course, they hadn't heard of the kids being forced into lockers in the _locker_ rooms or what took place under the bleachers. "What's the problem?" Dean never worried about the lockers--he had a reputation for being a mean bastard when pushed, and as far as under the bleachers went, he had _another_ reputation for that.

"I have to do research for one of Dad's hunts."

"_You_ do research?"

"Yes, and I can even tie my shoes."

"Wow, I guess that's why you were tripping on them the other day."

"You better remember who taught you how to tie your own."

There was nothing Sam could say to that. He'd been so confused after his dad had shown him that Dean had worked with him that night, teaching him the way Mom had taught Dean. The next morning he'd tied his shoes confidently and had thanked Dad for the lesson. Hmm. Was that a case of being a suck up? "I've never seen you do research. Is there stuff in the encyclopedias?"

"No, I have to go over to KU." The main campus of the University of Kansas was right there in Lawrence. "They have a lot of old books and I can use their computers, too. They're pretty kick ass."

"Can you teach me how to use them? Then you can go to the game." The computers in the elementary school library were pieces of dog crap.

"We have to ride the bus." Sam nodded. "And you have to pretend it's for a school project." Another nod. "And you have to wait for me to come get you. Dad'll kick my ass if I let you ride the public bus by yourself."

"But he's not going to know anyway, is he?" Sam reasoned. It wouldn't be the first nor the last thing they kept from Dad. Dean said it was honorable for kids to gang up on their parents, that nature had designed it that way. And since Dad's last words every time he left the house were "listen to your brother..."

"Yeah, but knowing you, your bus will have an accident and you'll be on the six o'clock news on a stretcher, waving to the crowds, and Dad'll be here kicking my ass before he goes to see you at the hospital."

Sam rolled his eyes, but knew better than to push his luck. He was going to a college library and going to use college computers. This was the best holiday ever! "I promise to wait for you to come get me. Why didn't I know about any of this?"

"You were probably on playdates with the geekatrons."

"We're not babies!"

"Yeah, whatever." Dean frowned, pulled out his wallet, and flipped a bus pass into his top pocket. Wow. He had his own pass. "This is really a bad idea. I can feel it in my gut."

"Come on, Dean. Besides, you gonna leave me here at home by myself?" Sam made himself look sad, but if it wasn't for the library, he would've been happy to stay home.

"Dad said to send you across the street to Mrs. Hastings."

"Mrs. Hastings like to give me fruitcake. It isn't really cake."

"Yeah, I know. Okay, get your jacket. And some money because I ain't paying your bus fare."

*

"Hi, Angeline." Sam shook his head. Of course Dean was on first name basis with the library staff--the female staff. "It's empty in here today."

"Christmas break. Only grad students and foreign visa kids are around. Who's your buddy?" She bent over the counter and even at his tender years, Sam knew her boobs were impressive. He didn't have to glance to know where his brother's gaze was.

"This is my brother, Sam."

"Hey, Sam, aren't you adorable? You Winchesters certainly are cute. Too bad you're either too old or too young."

Dean stretched to his full height. "They say the young are eager learners. We retain knowledge better. And I'm sure you have a lot you could teach me."

"Tell me that again in six years," Angeline said with a grin. "So, your dad's working on a new script?"

Dean had told him on the way over that they'd come up with the story that Dad was a scriptwriter when the librarians started noticing they were researching the supernatural. It was better than having them think he was part of a cult or something. Nobody ever reported scriptwriters to the cops. "Yeah, he sold the last one. Still can't convince him to pack up and move to Hollywood, though. But today, we're here because Sammy has a paper to do for school."

She smiled. "Well, you've come to the right place, little guy. And listen, your dad's a smart man. I wouldn't want my kids, when I have them, anywhere near Hollywood--especially if they're as cute as you two." She glanced down at a sheet. "You can have your choice of computers and because no one's here, no time limit."

"Thanks, Ange." Dean shoved Sam in the right direction.

After grilling Sam for fifteen minutes, Dean was satisfied that Sam could handle the job and left. Sam sighed in satisfaction. He had two hours on his own. This was great!

Finding the information wasn't too hard. Dean had figured out how to access some bulletin boards of "the weird" and they had lots of stuff. Soon, he was cruising along, horrified at some things and laughing at others. He really couldn't understand why Dean wanted to go play basketball instead of doing something cool like this.

*

"Sam."

Sam froze without turning around. That wasn't Dean's voice. That was Dad's voice. And Dad wasn't supposed to be here. He glanced quickly at his watch. If Dean caught the bus he said he was going to catch, then he should be getting off the bus just about now...unless there was traffic or the stupid-head had lost track of time. And did it really matter, because they were screwed, screwed, screwed.

He forced himself to smile and turn around. "Dad! What are you doing here?"

Dad didn't return his smile. "I think that's supposed to be my line. Where's your brother, Sam?"

"Bathroom," Sam blurted out. Dad looked like he didn't believe him. Crap.

"Okay. So Dean is in the bathroom, and you're here researching--" he looked over Sam's shoulder to read the screen-- "Ogres. Why are you researching ogres, Sam?"

"Um, Dean mentioned them and I was curious?"

"And why did he mention them to you?"

"Because he knows, Dad."

They both twisted around to see Dean standing behind them, panting softly and a backpack gripped tightly in his hand.

"He knows what, Dean?"

Sam hated it when his father's voice dropped to that oh, so soft tone. It meant he was beyond angry. It meant there was an explosion coming really, really soon.

"He knows what you hunt, sir."

Sam couldn't help but be proud of his brother at that moment. He wasn't stuttering out some lie or trying to hide behind the stacks. It was obvious he was scared. But it was also obvious he was brave.

"I suggest we take this discussion home where we can have some privacy."

"Yes, sir. Let me just take a moment to wipe out the history on the computer."

"You can--?" Dad asked hesitantly.

"A search can leave a trail, but if you--" Dean showed them both how to clear the history and the cache.

"Interesting," Dad said.

Dean just nodded and pushed Sam out in front of him. "Let's go, runt."

"By the way, Dean," Dad said, "You smell less like a bathroom and more like a gym."

Dean nor Sam gave a reply.

*

John shut the door to his office, firmly leaving Sam in the hallway, and looked at Dean who stood before him. "I don't think I've ever been as disappointed in you as I am now," he said, saying exactly what he thought. "I thought you and me were a team, that we had a plan for raising Sammy. You let me down, son." Dean didn't move an inch. "Nothing to say in your own defense?"

"No, sir."

John paced the short width of the room. "Why did you tell Sammy about hunting?"

"He found your journal, sir. It was either tell him the truth or let him believe you were crazy."

"My journal? Damn it, Dean, you know this door is supposed to stay locked! You left it open after you researched something for me?"

"Maybe, sir."

"What's the matter with you? You let him find out about the supernatural. You let him do _your_ research. You _left_ him in a college library _alone_. Researching _ogres_, ogres who like to crack open little kids' bones and suck out the marrow. That's what Sammy was reading, Dean. That's what Sammy was taking notes on, Dean. What is it, boy? Now that you're twelve you know better than I do?"

"No, sir."

John raked his fingers through his hair. "Then explain this to me, Dean. Explain why anything you did today was right."

"It wasn't," Dean mumbled.

John stopped in front of his son. "Speak up, boy!"

"It wasn't, sir. Nothing I did today was right."

"Damn straight. I hope you know that CD player you wanted for Christmas is going right back to the store."

"Yes, sir."

"And I really hope you like your room because you're going to be seeing a lot of it."

"Yes, sir."

"We've made plans to visit people the next few days, but the day after Christmas, we'll see about your punishment."

"Yes, sir."

John shook his head, not knowing if any of it had gotten through to Dean. "Go to your room and send your brother in here."

Dean nodded and quietly left the room.

This wasn't supposed to happen now, John groused. They had planned on keeping Sammy innocent to the darker side of the real world for as long as possible. He was supposed to stay a little boy for a lot longer--a little boy who slammed the door as he entered the room. "Watch yourself," John warned. "I think you're in enough trouble."

Sam almost rolled his eyes but apparently thought better of it. "You shouldn't have said that to Dean," he began.

"Said what?" John demanded, letting go of the fact that Sam had apparently been eavesdropping. "That I was taking away his Christmas present?"

"No. Who cares about stupid Christmas presents? You can take mine back, too. I don't want them. I don't want anything from you!"

John took a deep breath. Getting into a screaming match with an eight-year-old just wasn't an adult thing to do. "Listen, son, I admire you for sticking up for your brother. I know you think--"

"You don't know anything! Dean didn't do anything wrong. I picked the lock and read your stupid diary because I wanted to! Dean had nothing to do with it! And today Dean wanted to play basketball with his friends instead of doing _your_ work! I talked him into doing what he wanted to do instead of what you ordered. I was fine at the library by myself."

"Did you even know what bus to take to get home?"

"No, but Dean was coming back."

Sam was pouting and John thought he better put a stop to that. "And what about if something had happened before Dean got back? Remember what you were researching?" Sam paled and John felt like a piece of shit. "I'm not saying that anything like that would happen, son. Lawrence is safe with me and your Aunt Missouri around. But there are other things--humans who are bad, or just plain mean, who could cause you harm. It's why you need your big brother with you."

Sam looked up at him with big, liquid eyes. "Maybe it was a stupid idea, but we're kids, Dad. We're supposed to do stupid stuff every now and again. Dean says so! And he never tells me he's disappointed in me. Ever!"

John was floundering in the flood of information he was receiving and he knew the best thing to do was to get out of the water. "Go to your room, Sam. And you'll start weapons training after Christmas. If you want to know it all, then you'll know it."

"Fine! And, Dad, if Dean screwed up because he told an eight-year-old about the supernatural, then what does that make you for telling a five-year-old?"

Thankfully, the door was slamming shut as John's knees gave out and his son didn't see him crash against the desktop. He laughed nervously. Damn, Sammy had balls. And a wicked, mean possession of logic. Maybe the boy should go into law because he'd have the jury eating out of his hands with one short diatribe.

Because he was right. What Dean had done was no worse than what he'd done. No, he thought honestly, what he'd done was worse. The fire had taken away most of Dean's innocence, and he'd taken the rest. He'd begun co-parenting with a five-year-old. And apparently he was an abusive co-parent, his tongue a little too quick against an opponent who couldn't (or wouldn't) stand up against him--a subordinate, a junior officer. He'd seen it happen in the Corps, a lieutenant berating a corporal just because he could. It sucked. And he was guilty of it.

"Dear God, Mary. Do you see how wrong this is going without you? How am I supposed to do this without completely fucking up your sons? Maybe I should've left them with someone, given them away." But he knew if he'd done that, he wouldn't have lasted a year. Hunting would've killed him. Hurting would've killed him. He laughed. "I hear you, Mary. 'Suck it up, soldier.' You liked telling me that when I whined about something. You could really be a bitch when you wanted to be," he said to the empty room. "Yeah, I'll suck it up and straighten out this mess. Just for you, babe."

*

The day after Christmas, Sam learned to shoot a gun, Dean ran lap after lap around the school's track (wearing an amulet Sam gave to him, not knowing he had it because Dad was an ass), and John snuck into the boys' room and placed a CD player on each of their beds.


	3. Chapter 3

1993

* * *

John unlocked the door to his auto repair shop, started the coffee going in the waiting room because no matter how hot it got, some people _had_ to have their coffee, then unlocked the door of his office before heading to the large roll-up doors of the garage bays. Heated Kansas air swirled inside, making the space as muggy in the bays as it was outside. He quickly turned on one of the large fans and sighed at the relief it provided. Just another summer day in Lawrence.

"Hot one today," Abe Mason said, walking up behind John.

John smiled at the mechanic. Abe always commented on the weather instead of a more formal greeting. The ritual was comforting. "We'll look back on this fondly in the middle of January." Abe rolled his eyes and kept walking. John laughed and followed. "Jerry's gonna keep us busy today, dragging in a lot of overheated cars. Wanna tell me again why I thought it was a good idea to buy out Mike when he decided to take Kate and travel the U.S. in an RV?"

"It's home," Abe said wisely.

John couldn't argue with that.

About eleven o'clock he felt a shadow fall on his legs and slid out from beneath a '84 Ford. He squinted up into the sun and saw Ray Vanderpool, the varsity football coach at Douglas High School. "Hey, Coach, what can I do for you?"

"I'd like to talk to you about your son for a moment, if you have the time."

"Sure. Give me a minute to clean up, and I'll meet you in my office. There's coffee in the waiting area or help yourself to a pop in the mini-fridge next to my desk." The coach nodded and walked away. John stood and headed over to the sink to wash up with _Goop_. Stupid name, but nothing got rid of auto grease and grime better.

Abe gave him a look as he walked by him, and John shrugged. Dean, at this very moment, was supposed to be at practice for the junior varsity team. But at fourteen, Dean did things at his own speed, in his own time, and in his own way. John only hoped he hadn't done something stupid and blown his chance to play football at the high school.

"What's the problem?" he asked as he plopped into the chair behind his very messy desk. He was grateful that Abe's granddaughter kept the books.

Coach Vanderpool took a long sip of his _Country Time_ lemonade. "There's no problem, Mr. Winchester."

"John." Maybe if he was friendly with the man, he could get Dean out of whatever trouble he was in.

"I've been watching the JV team work out, John. Dean's a very good ball player. If only the varsity quarterback had an arm like his. I have no doubt that he'll have scholarship offers from a lot of colleges by the time he's a senior. Always hits his man square in the numbers. Could possibly go pro."

John smiled. Who knew teaching his kid to throw knives could come in so handy? He grew solemn as he realized there was a certain tone to the coach's assessment. "Do I hear a 'but' in there?"

Vanderpool shrugged. "I've studied a lot of players in my day and this is my own opinion, but I don't think Dean has the fire to go pro."

"You mean he lacks the discipline?"

"Hell, no. That boy of yours--he gives one hundred percent from what I've seen."

That was shocking, considering how much he dragged ass at home. The coach took another long pull of his drink.

"The thing is, John, Dean has a hell of a lot of potential to be great at whatever he wants to be. I think him going pro would be a waste."

What? "What?"

"I've talked to his teachers. So far he's an average student, but he's average without any effort. He's a freshman and this is when grades start counting. According to his past teachers, if he tries even a little, he can be in the top tenth of his class easily. If he stays there, maybe gets on student council, does some public service work, I'm pretty sure I can get him an appointment to West Point."

John wanted to laugh. Dean? At the U.S. Military Academy? He wanted to laugh but couldn't because the coach was looking quite serious. "_My_ Dean?" he had to ask.

"I know the kids joke about the slogan, 'Be All You Can Be In The Army,' but it's true. I think Dean will find his place there and thrive."

John was stumped. Dean was a solid "C" student. He was a good athlete. Although he muttered under his breath a lot, he kept to the rules, albeit the very edge of the rules. But West Point? His boy officer material? He had no doubt Dean could handle the physical parts of the training; hell, boot camp would be a treat for him after years of sports practices and John's own disciplinary program (heh! He liked the sound of that). Dean also wouldn't have trouble when it came to weapons. He was already a better shot than John, could assemble and disassemble almost anything blindfolded, and load and re-load on the move. Leadership skills were easily learned--he himself had learned to make soldiers get their asses in gear and he'd only been an average grunt. And Dean, as a quarterback, was already a team leader who could act under pressure.

However, the academic program was a bitch, and he didn't want to set up Dean for failure. Maybe with all his skills, Dean _should_ enlist after graduation. A tour or two would give him direction and focus without making him feel stupid like washing out of the Academy could. But the coach looked so earnest, so sure that Dean could do this... He shrugged. "I'll take this all under advisement, Coach. Thank you for watching out for my boy."

The coach pitched his empty bottle into the trashcan. "He's a good one. Wouldn't want him to get lost."

They shook hands and the coach left. John was still pondering the conversation as he waited in front of the elementary school for Sam's bus to arrive. Sam was attending a science day camp for the week and enjoying the hell out of it. For all of Sam's attitude, he was easily placated by something academic. If someone came up to John and suggested West Point for Sam, he would've still laughed--because Sam? Following orders? Was so not going to happen--but he wouldn't have been shocked. But Dean? Could he have missed something? What had the coach seen?

"Hi, Dad! We got to cut up frogs today--frogs we caught at the pond! It was great!" Sam said as he scrambled into the Impala. "Josh didn't gas his long enough and right when he came at it with a scalpel, it jumped off the table. You should've heard him scream!"

John listened as they made their way home and when Sam finally stopped to take a breath, he asked the question he swore he wasn't going to ask. "Sam, do you think your brother's smart?"

"A smart as--aleck, sure," Sam said gleefully.

"No, I mean, seriously."

Sam frowned and batted at the window handle. It'd been his favorite toy as a baby and for some reason still fascinated him. "Seriously? He's okay."

John took his eyes off the road long enough to make it plain to Sam that he needed a real answer. "What does that mean? You think he can cut college? Even without an athletic scholarship?" Sam just looked at him. "What?"

"Dad, he won the science fair three years in a row when he was at my school. And last year, he and his Math Bowl team made it to the state finals."

John was glad for the red light because he wasn't sure he could continue to drive. "He what?"

"Jesus, Dad. Don't you read anything you sign? I know he had to get your permission to ride the team van."

Sign? Right. But he'd just assumed it was some athletic competition. Science and math. Mary had gone to KU on a math scholarship. Why was he just remembering that? "He's that good?"

"Yeah," Sam pouted. "But I'm better in English and history because Dean hates reading. That's why I can't believe he does research for you. Besides, I don't need math to be a lawyer."

But hadn't reading been the reason Dean had wanted to go to school in the first place? What had happened to that _little boy_? And why was his father completely lost when it came to the _young man_? "I've never seen any of his awards. Why doesn't he put them up on the fridge like you do?"

"I don't put mine up there, Dean does."

"Oh." Well, he knew one thing that wouldn't be going on there: a Father of the Year Award. "Isn't he proud of what he's accomplished?"

Sam shrugged. "You go to his football, basketball, and baseball games. Maybe he thinks that's all you care about."

Damn. This was going from bad to worse. "Why? Why would he think that?"

"You ask me about school. You ask him about practice."

"He's never said anything about school," John protested.

"The only time the two of you talk is when you're giving him orders about the weekends you're hunting, or you're giving him instructions about our training."

Nah. That couldn't be right. "We talk in the mornings before you come to breakfast."

Sam nodded. "About what time he has to be home. And what's for dinner. And what team he plays next. I can hear you from the bedroom, you know."

Okay. Score one for the ten-year-old going on forty-five. John gave up. "So, what are you guys going to be cutting up tomorrow?"

"Can I play soccer?"

"Huh?"

"I wanna join the school's soccer team. Can I?"

Sports? Sammy wanted to play a sport? And Dean was a closet scholar? John shook his head, trying to make the world turn right side up again. How had he lost sight of his children like this? He was with them almost every day. They sat down to meals together...sorta. He went to PTO meetings (at least once or twice, hadn't he?). He signed report cards (scanned for "F"s and shrugged at everything else). He clothed and sheltered them (well, paid the bills anyway). Who were these strangers and what had they done with his boys?

"Dad? Soccer?"

"Yeah, sure. Tell me when your games are, okay?"

"Dean'll put the schedule up on the fridge."

Of course he would. Because Sam had a parent; Dean was an orphan. He looked up at the sky, searching the clouds for lightning. Because if Mary was looking down on them, he was in for a serious ass whupping. "Sounds good."

"Okay. So, tomorrow we're going on a nature hike, and we get magnifying glasses and everything. Hope I don't find any poisonous spiders. Are there many poisonous spiders around here, Dad?"

"Maybe that's something you should look up when we get home," John suggested.

"Dean'll help me," Sam agreed.

Of that, John was sure.

*

"Dad?"

John smiled as his son crossed the blacktop towards the car. He'd known Dean would zoom in on the Impala as soon as he left the gym. "Hey, kiddo!"

"What's wrong? Why are you here? Something happen to Sam?"

Okay. Not the reaction he wanted. "Nothing's wrong. Sam's fine. I just came by to ask if you wanted to have lunch with your old man."

"Lunch? What about work?"

John shrugged. "I'm the boss. So how about it?"

Dean looked a little undecided. "Um, I'll have to go tell Pinky's mom. She always takes me home after practice."

"Go on. I'll wait." Gerard Bowman had been Pinky since he caught pink eye in kindergarten. Because the nickname didn't bother the boy in the least, no parents stepped forward to discourage its use. John winced as he thought that one day someone would be calling him Grandpa Pinky, and that was just wrong. But since their two boys did everything together, he and Eloise Bowman had a standing arrangement about carting the boys around--she did most of the day work and he took care of evenings.

"So, I was thinking take out and eating in the park. Sound good to you?" John asked as Dean joined him in the car.

"S'okay. Danny's?"

Best burgers in town. "Sounds like a plan."

They got their food and found an empty picnic table in the shade of a spreading elm. Dean wolfed down his burgers like the growing boy he was and snagged John's fries when the old man proved too slow. "What's the deal, Dad? We've already had 'the talk,' so why lunch?"

They'd had 'the talk'? Oh, yeah. It had consisted of, "Dean, about girls..." "I already know, Dad." "Oh, really, what do you know?" "Kissing can't cause babies, but sex can. Always wear a condom because you know where you've been but you don't know about your partner. Respect girls. If they say no, they mean no. Don't let peer pressure make you do something you don't want to do. Love and sex aren't the same thing. And keep your mouth shut if you do manage to score because bragging is just overcompensation for some shortage on your part." John hadn't had anything to add, so kept his mouth shut. Apparently the schools were better at that sort of thing than they'd been when he was a boy. Good. Then he wouldn't have to suffer through it with Sam. Of course, he was pretty sure Dean would take care of it anyway.

"I--I want to talk about your future, son. You're starting high school. Your grades are going to follow you for the rest of your life, so now's the time to make changes if you want to."

Dean looked affronted. "What changes? You told me I only had to keep a 'C' average to play sports, and I've been doing that."

"And that's good. But playing a sport isn't your only option for the future. Surely, you've thought about what you want to be when you grow up?"

"A mechanic?"

The idea warmed John's heart, but he heard the question mark in his son's answer. Dean was fishing around for what John wanted to hear. "You're good under the hood of a car, but do you really want to do that for the rest of your life?"

Dean shrugged. "I considered maybe working for NASA."

"You want to be an astronaut?" God. After a couple of days of watching Dean, Coach Vanderpool knew his son better than he did. Sam had been saying for ages that he was going to be a lawyer, and he watched more Court TV than he did the big networks. Dean'd never said anything. And John had never asked.

"Heck no! I--I don't do well with heights, Dad. I want to work on the shuttle, or maybe design a new kind of space vehicle. Or maybe just a new engine. Cars, too. It's just not right that we're still using a combustible engine. I mean, it's still technologically the same engine that the Model T used. The Model T, Dad!"

His son sounded outraged at the idea. Passion. Fire, Coach Vanderpool had called it. "Well, if you want to work at NASA or design new engines or whatever, don't you think you should do better than a 'C' average?"

"It's just a dream," Dean mumbled.

"Everything starts out as a dream, Dean. That's not a reason _not_ to go for it. You kick ass in science and math. If you try in the other subjects, I'm sure you can do better."

"Maybe."

"No maybe about it. I think it's time you raised your goals a bit higher, son. Winchesters suck at just settling, you know. You think it was easy for me to go from being your Uncle Mike's junior partner to owning the entire garage? If something goes wrong there, it's my head on the chopping block, and no one else's. I'm responsible for the welfare of six employees. There are bills and taxes and all kinds of headaches. But I'm glad I did it. It's made me...happy. I want you to be happy too, Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll give it a shot."

"Since I've seen you shoot, make 'A's your target, kiddo, and you'll have nothing to worry about." He bumped his shoulder against Dean's. This had gone well. "And by the way, join the student council."

Dean groaned and bounced his head on the wooden table.

"Sammy's camp becomes an overnighter this weekend," John continued, feeling a reward was in order for both of them; Dean was thinking long-term, and he had survived another one of those rites of passages talks. "How about you and me go on a hunt while he's gone?" It was a simple salt and burn. The only possibility of injury would be blisters from digging the grave, which as the junior member of the team, would be Dean's job.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Dean grinned, balled up his burger wrappers and did a mock jump shot toward the metal trashcan. "Awesome, Dad. Awesome."


	4. Chapter 4

1995

* * *

Dean pulled up in front of the middle school and tapped his horn. Sam separated from his geek squad and slid into the backseat.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Hello to you, too," Dad said dryly from the passenger's seat.

"Hey, Dad. Well, Dean?"

Dean held up a tiny plastic coated card. "I'm legal, Sammy. The state of Kansas has officially licensed me to drive!"

"Did someone warn the Senior Center?"

"Funny, Sammy."

"Sam."

"Whatever, bitch."

"Don't call your brother a bitch," Dad objected.

"Jerk," _Sammy_ said, holding up his hand for a high five.

"Where to, Dad?" Dean asked as he pulled away from the curb. Smooth as butter, he praised himself and the Impala.

"Swing by the shop."

"You going back to work?" They usually went out to eat on birthdays, but Dad had picked him up early to take the driver's exam, so maybe dinner was going to be later.

"Nah, I just have something I need to pick up."

"Okay." Dean checked the speed indicator, determined not to give his dad anything to bitch about.

"You took a lousy picture," Sammy commented, looking closer at the license.

"Shut up. I've never taken a bad picture in my life. This face couldn't take a bad picture."

"What about your fifth grade school pictures that you dropped in the toilet?"

"It _was_ an accident, Dad." Dean glared into the rearview mirror to make sure Sam knew he had violated a brotherly confidence in the presence of a parent.

"Yeah, I know it was an accident," Sam said quickly. "Just teasing, that's all."

Dad just grunted. Dean turned up the cassette player. Dad turned it down. The rest of the trip was made in muted silence.

"Come on, boys."

They followed Dad out of the car and around the back of the shop. A black truck sat gleaming next to the dumpster and the oil recycling bin. "Nice ride, Dad. Who does it belong to?"

"Me."

"You bought a truck, Dad?" Sam asked excitedly. "Wow! Look what you'll be driving, Dean."

"Dean won't be driving this," Dad said quickly. He gave Dean an apologetic smile. "I mean, how would it look if I let a sixteen-year-old drive my new truck?"

"I'm a good driver, Dad," Dean said in his own defense.

"I know you are, son." Dad buffed an imaginary spot on the truck, then adjusted one of the side mirrors. "That's why I'm trusting you with the Impala."

Dean froze. Did Dad mean-- "Wha--?"

Dad grinned and patted him on the back. "She's yours, son. Take good care of her and she'll take good care of you."

"She's mine?" Dean asked hesitantly.

"She's yours. She always was. I'd never lie to your mother."

Dean blinked rapidly, then held up the keys he had in his hand. "Come on, Sammy! The Winchester Brothers are mobile and on the prowl!"

"Hey, she's not the General Lee."

Dad thought--Yeah, the _Dukes of Hazzard_ had been cool, but he could've shot both of them for what they put their car through. "I'd never treat a car like that, Dad! She's... God, Dad." He was at a loss for words.

"He already treats the Impala better than he does me," Sammy said, adding his support in his own weird way.

"That's because she treats _me_ better, Sam." He turned back to his father. "I would never, _never_, hurt my baby like that. I promise you."

Dad nodded, and Dean gathered Sam with a look and took off for the front of the garage.

"Meet you at Dino's Steakhouse in a hour," Dad called.

"Okay, dude!"

"Shotgun!" Sammy yelled.

Dean reached out, dragged Sam over with an arm around his neck, and gave him an affectionate noogie. "Where else, bitch?"

"Jerk!"

*****

"Dean, I think there's a hunt right here in Lawrence."

"Huh?" Dean frowned over the blank piece of paper he'd been staring at for the past two hours. A report on Hamlet. Ugh. He didn't think his teacher would appreciate his writing down what _he_ truly thought of the character: "Hamlet is a whiny bitch who should've either ended his dirty old uncle or shut the hell up about it. He treated the women in his life like shit. Ophelia had obvious psychological problems and shouldn't have been played like that. And his mama had all the symptoms of being a battered wife. He talked a lot of smack and in the end couldn't back it up. Glad he ended up dead. Chump!" Oh, yeah. That would go over well, especially since Mrs. Mackey thought that Hamlet was such a "tortured soul." The boy didn't know torture.

"Something from the Wakarusa River is killing people."

Yeah, pollution. But... Stare at the paper for another hour or two or listen to Sam go on and on and on? Wasn't really a contest. He tossed the book and paper aside. "Hit me with what you got, little bro." They had a week of Spring Break, Dad was off hunting with Bobby and Pastor Jim, and he had a car with a full tank of gas (yay for Dad's guilt for leaving them alone for ten days). There was no way he was going to lose any more brain cells to Hamlet, Prince of Boredom. Besides, what kind of hunter would he be if he let the freaks run around his hometown?

"See this story here?" Sam held out their latest copy of the _Weekly Weird News_. They had a subscription to the tabloid so only the mailman thought they were strange and not their neighbors in the supermarket. "This man was found in his house with his intestines missing."

Dean plucked the paper from Sam's fingertips. "You know there are people who eat pig intestines? They call them chitterlings. Sounds disgusting. Shelly said they were like a favorite in the Deep South. Or was it Shannon? Shanda, maybe?"

"Focus, Dean," Sam said impatiently.

Dean bit back a smirk. Winding Sammy up was just plain fun. "Maybe there's a black market for intestines, geek boy, like kidneys and livers. Maybe somebody needed an intestine transplant."

"There's no such thing as an intestine transplant," Sam huffed. "Besides, read the rest of the story. The man didn't die from having his intestines removed; he died from water in his lungs--river water from the Wakarusa."

"So he drowned in his own living room," Dean mumbled as he read the article, curious for real now. The Wakarusa flowed along the southwestern border of Lawrence. Too close for comfort. "What could do that?"

"It could be a ghost?"

Dean shook his head. "Ghosts don't chow down on body parts."

Sam got a look that indicated he was either crapping his diaper (birth until age two or thereabouts) or sifting through the info stored in his freaky, geeky head (age two and thereafter). Although Dean would never tell him, he was impressed with just how much Sammy could remember and pull out on demand. "It could be a Nixie. Or maybe a Rusalka? But the intestine thing is throwing me. I don't remember anything about intestines."

Dean shrugged. "Could be a new mutation. Or maybe just a dietary need that's not being met." Sam stared. "What? I'm just saying, that's all. I mean, look at all the chemicals and shit that's dumped into the river. What's to say it's not turning the freaks into freakier freaks?" He patted his jeans pocket to make sure he had his car keys, then stood. "Come on, Brainiac, guess it's time to hit the library."

After two hours of research, even Sam was ready to give up. "I think you're right," he admitted. "The freaks are getting freakier. I've no idea what we're dealing with."

Dean gave him a sympathetic smile. Then he spied something on the computer monitor in front of him and straightened in his seat. "Anybody leave puddles of water behind them? According to the police report, there were water drops leading into the house and around the body."

"Police report?" Sam whispered. He hopped up from his chair and bent over Dean's shoulder. "God, Dean, don't tell me you hacked into the police computer. And when the hell did you learn that?"

"Tony taught me." Tony had hacked into the White House, F.B.I., and Defense Department's computers at last count. But hey, who was counting?

Sam sighed. "You're gonna teach me, right?"

Dean bopped him on the back of the head. "Taught you everything else, haven't I? And I'm still waiting on my Brother of the Year award, too, bitch."

"Yeah, yeah. Remind me again when Hell freezes over." Sam grabbed a book from the stack sitting next to the computer and flipped through it. "The Nixie drips a trail of fresh water behind her."

"So, Nixie it is. How do we kill the bitch?"

"Tracing the sign of the cross on her forehead will paralyze her, then you can drown her in saltwater."

"Saltwater?" Dean tapped the desk as a way to focus. "Let's see... We're six hundred miles from the Gulf and nine hundred miles from Salt Lake City. Guess we can raid Dad's supply room, then dig out your old kiddie pool."

"You spent more time in it than I did."

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Dean grinned and shrugged. "What can I say: I look good in swim trunks." He snapped his fingers. "That's it! The scuba shop has a saltwater practice tank!"

Sam nodded. "You're bowlegged, you know that, right?"

Kid never did know when to let something die. "More room."

"Room for what?"

Dean just smiled. "You'll find out when you're older."

"I don't think I want to know." Sam turned back to his book. "Now that we know how to do away with the Nixie, we just have to find her. Hmm."

"Hmm, what?"

"It says here she likes to shop."

Dean wasn't falling for that one. "No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does. See?"

Sam stuck the book under his nose and he had to pull back to read it. "The Nixie can usually be distinguished from a mermaid because she is a shopper." Shopping. Damn. That was about as bad as the intestine-eating. With a sigh, Dean dug into his pocket and pulled out some change. "Sometimes you have to sacrifice for the hunt, Sammy. Give me a couple of minutes." He headed over to the pay phone bank and pulled a small sheet of paper from his wallet. Fifteen minutes later, he motioned for Sam to gather their stuff and follow him.

"According to my sources, if a woman wants to do some serious shopping, she's going to go to Oak Park Mall."

"Where's that?"

Dean adjusted his backpack over one shoulder. Their first hunt. Not a dark forest. Not a dank cave. Not even a rickety mansion with its own creepy graveyard. No, they got to go a mall. He wondered if he could call Pastor Jim and get a special prayer said for them. It was still close enough to Easter, wasn't it? "Overland Park, right outside of Kansas City. Dad took us there one Christmas, I think. You were probably too young to remember. Scared him so bad, I don't think we've ever been back."

Wide eyes stared at him. "And--and that's where we're going?"

"Suck it up, Sam. Hunts can take you into dangerous territory."

*

"Holy Hell!"

Dean had to agree with Sam's comment as they stared at the two-story mall in front of them. "We can do this, Sam. We're Winchesters."

"We can't cover this whole place, Dean." Sam flinched as the automatic doors opened, beckoning them into the vast, air-conditioned bowels of the shopping center.

Dean stepped stalwartly through the doors. He couldn't let his little brother sense his fear. "It's all good, bro. I got directions."

"Directions to where?"

"The store that ladies are drawn to like moths to a flame."

"Where's that?"

"_Victoria's Secrets_."

*

Sam glared at the large glass windows and then at his brother. "Stop drooling over the mannequins, dude. They aren't real!"

"You're just not old enough to use your imagination, Sammy."

Sam squirmed on the hard wooden bench, deliberately ignoring the mean looks he got from older women who obviously wanted the bench for themselves. If it'd been just him, he would've moved. But if Dean was asked to move, he'd cause a scene--no, a spectacle! And then they would've wasted all this time in this stupid mall. No, sorry, ma'am, with baby in stroller and whining four-year-old in hand. This seat's taken. Move along.

Sam stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. Then he drew them back in and rubbed at his knee as a baby went toddling by. Next, he scratched his nose and picked at a scab on the back of his hand. He tried to remember how or when he'd hurt it. Maybe in P.E. class? "How long are we supposed to sit out here looking for dripping women?" he asked with a huff.

Dean stayed slumped on the bench, eyes barely open. "You really are eleven, aren't you?"

"Twelve," Sam muttered. His birthday was just a couple weeks away. And everyone knew there was a two-week grace period for birthdays.

Dean poked him in his side. "Look, dude, stakeouts take a while. Don't they have stakeouts on _Law & Order_?"

"Maybe, but I generally just look at the courtroom parts."

"Trust me. The main key to hunting is patience."

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's experienced tone. How could he have forgotten he was talking to an expert? "Like you know so much. Dad's taken you on what, three hunts?"

"Three more than you, geek boy."

Big brothers were a pain in the ass. "Why are we here again?"

"This is what's called a hunt," Dean said slowly.

Sam half-heartedly kicked at him. "No. Why are we here at this...this underwear store?"

"Janine said there are two stores that women can't resist--_Victoria's Secrets_ and _Bath & Body Works_. Since you're allergic to prissy scents--"

"I'm not allergic to anything."

Dean shrugged. "Must be my other brother. Anyway, we're here. So just sit back and enjoy the floor show, okay? I know you have male hormones floating around in there somewhere or else your voice wouldn't be so squeaky."

"My voice isn't--" He heard the crack in his tone before he could finish the sentence. He glared at Dean's laugh and took a book from his backpack. Hopefully, he'd get lost in the book and forget he was sitting with an idiot. In front of a lingerie store.

Sometimes it sucked to be a Winchester.

*

"Sweet D! That you?"

Dean sat up and grinned at the group of women walking toward them. "Ladies! How are you this lovely spring day?"

"We're fine, but what about you? If you're hurting bad enough to sit outside a lingerie store, you know we'd hook you up."

He coughed and jerked his head toward Sam. "I'm here with my little brother. He's doing a paper on how many men actually set foot in Vicky's Secret Place as opposed to the ones that just stare through the windows," he explained. The same story had convinced a mall security guard that they weren't casing the joint.

"Oh, that's right. He's 'little geek boy', isn't he?"

Dean could see Sammy turning red and thought he better do some fence-mending. "Um, Sam, these are some friends of mine from downtown. Ladies, this is my brother Sam." _Sam_--that should appease him.

"He's adorable, Sweet D. Look at him blush! Well, we'll let you boys get back to work. The girls and I are just here to pick up some work wear."

"Looks like a good sale," Dean replied, as if he knew what girls' underwear was supposed to cost. "And if you have any problems deciding on something, just give me a wave."

The ladies giggled and went inside.

Sam stared after them until they moved out of direct eyesight. Then--he stared at his brother. "Dean, those aren't sorority girls, are they?"

"Nope."

"They said 'work wear.' Does that mean they're--"

Dean grinned. "Hookers? Quick on the uptake, bro."

"But--but...How do you know hookers, Dean?"

"I told you, they're friends." He crossed his fingers, hoping Sam would let the matter drop.

"You're sixteen. You aren't supposed to be friends with hookers!"

"Who are you? The public decency police?" Dean took a deep breath, knowing he had to explain before Sam was on the phone to Dad talking about Dean's lost virtue or something. "Look, man, they work the university area. One day when I was waiting at the bus stop, a john started to act up and I stopped him, okay? Charity--that's the one who was talking so much--he was following her out of the car and grabbing her. I put him down and then he got in the car and drove away. Stupid frat boy. She was grateful and introduced me around. Most of them live nearby. I talk to them whenever I'm heading to the library."

Sam bit the corner of his lip. "So Charity's a...madam?"

Dean raised a knowing eyebrow. "You watched _Best Little Whorehouse In Texas_, didn't you--even though Dad told you to change the channel, you little brat. And Charity's more of a den mother. She watches out for the girls who need watching out for--sometimes they're new, suck at reading guys, or they aren't used to handling money and paying bills--and teaches them what they need to know to survive." He looked directly into Sam's eyes as he always did when he wanted his brother to listen to exactly what he said. "Life on the streets ain't good, Sammy. Don't ever think about running away or anything. It's not even worth thinking about."

"You ever think about it?"

Dean shook his head. Life without Mom was bad enough; how would he exist without Dad and Sam? "What would you and Dad do without me? Nah, Sammy. There's nothing out there I need."

"Me neither. So, about the hookers, Dean? They don't give you freebies or anything, do they?"

Dean shoved at his shoulder a little. "What's the first thing I told you when you were sweet on Debbie Marie last year?"

"Don't kiss and tell."

"Exactly." Dean heard a whistle and looked toward the store. Charity was holding up a pink polka-dotted thong. He gave her two thumbs up.

"Dean," Sam began. "I don't want to say this, but I'm impressed, man."

Dean shrugged. "Right place, right time, dude. That's all it comes down to." He leaned back on the bench and watched his friends shop. They stopped by and gave him kisses when they left.

*

"Dean!"

Dean didn't remember drifting off, but considering the fact he'd just jerked awake, he guessed he had. Following Sam's pointing finger, he saw wet splotches on the dull tile of the floor. "Who?"

"I'm not sure. But there's no trail coming out."

Dean nodded and kept up his concentration enough to spot the woman as she left the store, pink shopping bag in hand. "She looks human. Why is she dripping?"

"The human part is just an illusion, Dean. She's still a Nixie underneath."

"Oh."

The two of them tailed her through the mall and to her car. They almost lost her on the interstate, but pulled up a block behind as she turned into a driveway on the outskirts of Lawrence.

"What do we do now?" Sam asked.

"There's no way we can knock her out and drag her body to the car while it's still daylight. We'll go home. Come back tonight. "

"What if she leaves before we get back."

"Then we'll wait until she comes home again. Patience, grasshopper."

*

The phone was ringing when they got home. Dean raced to the phone and answered it, dumping the white bags with their dinner on the table. "Hey, Dad... No, everything's alright. Me and Sammy did some homework, then hung out at the mall... What? No, we're not possessed... _Christo_ to you, too. Seriously, Dad, we were just trying it out because that's what everyone says kids our age do... Well, actually, it's just as evil as it was all those years ago, Dad... Nah, we won't be doing it again... Yeah, here's Sammy."

"Hey, Dad... Not really sure what I was supposed to be doing there... Oh, we ran into some of Dean's friends...They were okay...Yeah, girls... By the way, since it's the man who determines whether a baby is a boy or girl, thanks for having Y's, Dad...Yeah, talk to you tomorrow. 'Bye."

Dean put his hand over his heart. "Dude, you had me worried there for a second."

"Dude, I'm the last person who'd want Dad picking our friends, Sweet D."

Dean slapped him on the back a little harder than necessary. "Let's eat, brat."

"Shouldn't we check the answering machine?"

"Probably just Dad or some stupid telemarketer."

Sammy hit the play button anyway.

"Boys, this is your Auntie Missouri. Y'all be careful tonight. And, Dean, you really should've bought that leather cleaner the other day at the auto store. Have fun now."

Dean shuddered. "I hate when she does that. But since she apparently didn't call Dad, I guess we won't have much trouble getting the Nixie."

"I already knew that."

"What are you talking about, Sammy? You getting freaky like Missouri?"

"I don't think you want to talk about freaks."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean yanked out a chair and dropped hard to it.

"It's you who has the CYA alert, not me."

What the--? "Huh?"

"Cover your ass."

Dean threw a fry at Sam. "I know what CYA means, asshole." He sniffed a wrapped burger to see which one had onions.

Sam reached for one of the milkshakes. "Nobody does it as good as you, dude. You get all hesitant when you know something isn't going to work out. That you go through with it anyway just shows how stupid you are. But I'm not. If you hesitate about anything I'm going to do, I just don't do it."

"You're full of bullshit." Sam's burger went sliding across the table.

"Am not! Remember when you left me at the library and Dad found me? You said it was a really bad idea and it was. And when I asked you if I should go to Paul Nixon's party and you said you weren't sure? I didn't go and the next day, I found out the neighbors had called the cops and all the parents had to come claim their kids. Dad would've loved that. But I was in the clear because of your CYA alert."

Dean leaned over and touched Sam's forehead. "You running a fever? Maybe doing drugs behind my back?"

Sam unwrapped his dinner and took a big bite. "Anyway, that's why I knew this hunt was going to work out. You didn't make a single protest."

"I was trying to get away from Hamlet! And don't talk with your mouth full."

Sam rolled his eyes. "That's right. Go on ignoring it. Less time for Dad to be on _my_ ass."

Dean gave up. His brother would always be the smartest idiot he knew. "Eat your food, Sam."

*

Hours later, they returned to the Nixie's house. There was another car in the driveway.

"You think she has a dinner guest?" Sammy guessed.

"Or is she just having _dinner_?" Dean worried.

"Would she do it in her own house? The other guy was killed at his place. Isn't there some kind of rule about shitting where you eat?"

Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. "Dude, somebody's gonna take a bar of soap to your mouth."

"Dad doesn't care--unless someone else is around."

"Shit." The Nixie was locking her door and a man was standing on the porch waiting for her.

"What?" Sam finally caught on. "Oh, she's going on a date. What are we going to do? We can't follow them all night. We have a curfew!"

"I have a feeling we were going to blow our curfew anyway, Sammy. But, we can't-- Aw, fuck it." Dean got out of the car and walked up to the couple. "Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm from the Apostolic Church of The Right Reverend Winchester and--" By the time he got to the "and," he'd sketched the cross on her forehead and she dropped like a rock.

"What the hell!" the man yelled as he shoved Dean away. He bent over his date, then drew back sharply. "What the hell," he said again, this time with a mixture of awe and disgust. The illusion was gone and what was left was covered in green scales and smelled like fish gone bad.

"She would've eaten your intestines, dude."

The man stared at Dean in horror. "This--this isn't happening."

"No, it's not. Just a bad dream, my man. Go home and sleep it off, okay?"

"Okay."

"Dean?" Sammy stood over the woman, grimacing.

The sound of a gunning engine split the night as the intended victim made good on his escape. Dean hoped the squealing tires that followed didn't make the neighbors look out their windows. "Take her keys and go into the house. Find some sheets and towels or something. God, we're gonna have to spend hours tomorrow getting this smell out of my car."

Breaking into the diving shop was easy; watching the Nixie dissolve into a slimy goo that eventually completely dissipated was not.

But they did make curfew.

*

The details of the hunt were lost and forgotten when the next morning, at 9:02 a.m., the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City was bombed, killing one hundred and sixty, nineteen of the dead being children.

Dad was home before the end of the day.


	5. Chapter 5

1997

* * *

Sam stared as he watched his brother try on his graduation robe. It was supposed to be burgundy, but it looked red to him. Hopefully, they'd have a better shade by the time _he_ graduated. "You look like a tomato."

"Shut it, dork."

"Seriously, after graduation we'll all be heading to salad bars."

Dean placed the mortar board on his head and preened in the mirror. "I rock even in my cap and gown. You're just jealous."

Riiight. Anything you say, Mr. Tomato Head.

The bear seems to like it.

Sam stared at the white bear dressed in a red cap and gown which was sitting on Deans battered backpack. A gift from a girl, of course. Supposedly, guys were the one who bought their girls trinkets and fuzzy things. But Dean had been receiving stuff like that since middle school. In fact, one Christmas he had donated a whole box of things to some childrens charity.

Why aren't you studying for finals or something? Dean fussed with the angle of his cap.

"I'm tired of studying. Don't forget your honor cords."

Dean picked up the strands and draped them around his neck. "You? Tired of studying? Does the six-o'clock news know?"

"You can't be so mouthy at a military academy."

"It's West Point, dude, not some school for misbehaving boys."

Sam perched on the dresser, partially blocking Dean's view of himself. "Didn't you get enough of boot camp around here?"

Dean shrugged. "Go with what you know, right?"

"You could've gone anywhere. Somewhere you didn't have to follow orders all the time."

Dean sat on the dresser beside him. "Not all of us have your drive, dude. Some of us need to have someone pushing us from behind. Besides, my CYA alert hasn't gone off once through all the applications and nominations and crap. That should make you feel better."

"Dean," he sighed. "You don't do authority all that well, especially when it's authority among your own peers. Just--keep your head down, at least your first year."

"You worried about me, Sammy?"

Yes, but he wasn't going to tell Dean that. Dean would just call him a girl and ignore him. But this was something that shouldn't be ignored, and if he had to body-slam the knowledge into Dean's head, he would. "You took the president of the chess club to the homecoming dance because you were mad that Darla Stevens assumed the quarterback and the head cheerleader would go together. As president of the Student Council, you instituted demerits for everybody who pointed at, laughed at, or otherwise picked on the special needs students. Your best damn friends are a group of hookers. Your senior project was building a launderette for the homeless."

"I'm an awesome philanthropist," Dean said with a cocky grin.

"Listen to what I'm saying, bro. You attract, cultivate, and admire the fringe elements of our society. Now, you're going off to a place where there's absolutely no tolerance for anything remotely considered fringe. Either they're going to eat you alive, or you're gonna cave and become some kind of Stepford cadet, or..." Sam stopped and gave Dean a pointed look. "You do know this school's been around for almost two hundred years. It was a fort, I think. Built to withstand anything," he warned.

"Not like I'm planning to blow it up." Sam raised a "yeah, right" eyebrow. "What? I'm not an anarchist, for Christ's sake."

"You kinda are, Dean. You and I both know you would've been right there in the middle of Boston Harbor, throwing tea around and telling King George to go piss himself."

"Coffee, maybe."

Sam banged his head gently against the mirror behind him. "_So_ not the point, bro. Anyway, the Academy's kinda stuck in a rut, or under a rock. They don't like change or 'different.' You realize some still haven't really accepted girls can go there?"

"You think it's because we haven't lived with girls that we don't have that built in hatred that other guys have?" Dean pondered. His cap was in his hand, and he was shaking the tassel like it was a rattle.

Sam took a minute to apply logic to the problem. And the tassel was sorta fascinating. "It seems to me exposure should increase tolerance, not decrease it. I just think they're assholes."

"You are a very wise fourteen-year-old," Dean praised.

"Wise enough to know you're gonna end up rocking the boat at the Academy and no one's gonna be there to back you up--which should concern you, but won't."

Dean sailed the cap across the room to land exactly in the center of his bed. Show-off. "One--I'm going to West Point not Annapolis so can the boat analogies. Two--I know you think I'm some sorta social revolutionist or whatever, but come on, Sam. Really, I'm just your average, red-blooded American guy. I'll blend in so well, the professors will have to call my name everyday because they won't even remember what I look like."

Sam laughed. Teachers were always asking him, some with excitement and others with trepidation, if he was kin to Dean Winchester. If the past was any indication, his brother would blend in like a peacock in a chicken coop. "Well, you all _will_ be dressed alike," he conceded, just to make Dean happy.

"Little tin soldiers, isn't that what you said when I got accepted?"

Except Dean was gonna end up copper, brass or something else bright and shiny that stuck out like a sore thumb. But he was going to let his brother have his fantasies. Maybe it would protect him long enough to gather allies. "You're going to be so adorable in your cute khaki uniforms," he snarked.

"Only a girl would know they were khaki and not beige. Sure you don't want to start the application process to the Academy? With two Winchesters, we could kick twice the ass, and like you said, they accept girls."

"Kiss my ass, bro" Sam shook his head. "Me, at West Point? Then what? Join J.A.G.? --although I wouldn't mind being Harm to Catherine Bell's Mac. Sorry, man, but I'm going somewhere way more liberal. Maybe Stanford or Carolina. I've had enough stifling here in Kansas." And he was tired of being Dean Winchester's little brother _anywhere_. Except, you know, when it came in handy. Dean's rep had kept trouble away from him more than once.

Dean stood and peeled off his robe. "Speaking of stifling, how was your first official hunt with Dad last weekend? I was scared to ask."

Sam snorted. He'd wondered why Dean hadn't said anything, thought maybe he'd talked to Dad about it instead of him. "He sat on his ass and watched me dig for two hours."

"He was watching your back in case the ghost made an appearance."

Yeah, ghosts could be vicious bastards, but... "Dean, the ghost was just some guy who wanted revenge on his best friends because they knew his wife was having an affair and didn't tell him. He'd got them all, so he didn't care what we did to his bones and happily went off to wherever the dead are supposed to go." The only thing threatening in that cemetery were the mosquitoes. "And, ugh, by the way. That _Vick's_ you had me rub under my nose didn't do a damn thing for the smell."

"Try it without the _Vick's_ and let me know how that goes," Dean replied dryly. He put the robe on a hanger. When the zipper caught briefly, he gave a small curse. "It was kinda cool dropping the match in, wasn't it?" The zipper continued on its route without any more issues.

Sam looked from the zipper to his brother. "You know you have a serious problem with fire and explosions and shit, right?"

"You ain't gotta lie, bro. Turned you on, didn't it?"

Sam flicked a pen at Dean's head. "Shut up. God, how many more of these bonding salt-and-burns do I have to look forward to? At least you got to work a Phantom Hitchhiker."

"That was purely by accident. We were headed home from the cemetery, and I'd conked out after patching up the blisters on my hands--damn, that shovel needs some padding. Anyway, I woke up to Dad saying we got a visitor and something flickering in the backseat. Bitch nearly scared me to death. Glad she just wanted to see her family one last time before she crossed over."

He hung the graduation gown in their closet before turning back to Sam. "By the way, I suggest when you get a car, you put a baggie of salt under the driver's seat where you can get to it in a hurry. Mark it NaCl with a pen, though. That way, if the cops ever search your car, you can just say it was left over from your last science project where you were comparing the density of different liquids with additional salinity and trust me, the officer's eyes are gonna glaze over, and he'll be so glad to get away from you, you won't have to worry about sitting around waiting for the salt to be tested."

"Please tell me that's just a working theory." A shrug. "Man, is there anything you haven't done?"

Dean glanced at him mysteriously from lowered eyes. "Dude, that would be telling."

"Forget I asked," Sam said quickly.

Dean smirked and looked around for the paper sleeve the cap was supposed to go in. "Do me a favor?"

"What?" Sam pointed to where the cap's package lay on the other side of the bed.

"Don't pick on Dad so much while I'm away. You don't want to worry about me, and I don't want to worry about you two. I get that you don't see eye to eye, but cut the old man some slack, okay?" Dean bent to retrieve the sleeve and Sam had to strain to hear him. "You're too young to remember, but he was in a bad way after...after Mom's death. He could've left us, gone hunting full-time or climbed into a bottle. But he didn't, and although you bitch and moan a lot, we haven't had such a bad life. Can you remember that when he gets like he gets?"

"Yeah, I can do that." He hadn't really thought about being alone with Dad. Dean called them both prima donnas (not where Dad could hear, but still), and Sam was self-aware enough to know there was some truth in that. A little bit. More on Dad's side, of course.

Dean forced the cap into the paper square and stood. "Good. Because it ain't his fault, you know."

"His fault about what?"

"That I'm the beauty, brains, _and_ brawn of this family, bitch."

"And the biggest jerk on the planet," Sam felt compelled to add. He also felt compelled to duck--which was a good thing since a paper ball smacked the mirror where his head had just been.

*****

"Sam?"

"Dean?" Sam tossed aside Dean's old chem textbook and settled the phone against his shoulder. Chemistry wasn't his favorite subject, so he was using the summer to bone up on it. It helped that Dean had scribbled notes all throughout the text--except for the ones about girls, sports practices, and some drawings he thought might be vaguely sexual. "Hey, man. They're finally letting you contact the outside world again and Dad's not here. He and Pastor Jim are in Cincinnati--vampires."

"Good, I'm glad he's not there. Sam?"

Well, that was a pathetic sound. An obvious ploy for sympathy. Did he realize whom he was talking to? "Yes, Dean," he said graciously.

"I wanna come home."

Sam laughed. He couldn't help himself. He'd told Dean what to expect at Beast Barracks--all the multi-mile hikes and drills and obstacle courses and hand grenade training with live grenades.... "Man, I thought you said you could take it. What was it again? 'I'm a Winchester, hear me roar'?"

Dean sniffed. "But you didnt tell me about the worst part."

"What? The gas chamber exercise?" Sam shuddered at the thought of voluntarily walking into a gas-filled room, taking off the gas mask, stating your name and cadet company, then walking--walking--out of the room. What was that supposed to teach? Blind adherence to stupid orders?

"Sammy, it's much worse than that."

Shit. What could possibly be worse? The murder of babies? "What is it, Dean? You can tell me," he said compassionately. Dean was just too nice for a place like that. He was a jerk, but he had a big damn heart. "What have they made you do?"

"We have to be at reveille at five fucking thirty in the morning, man!" Dean whined. "It's killing me, sucking out my soul like a zombie sucks out a brain."

Sam lost it. It was several minutes before he could stop laughing enough to reply. "Dude, that's so lame! We got up here at 5:30, before Dad slipped you the Impala and we didn't have to catch the bus."

"Yeah, but I didn't have to be _awake_, Sam. I was up, but, dude, I didn't wake up until like first period. Now they expect me to be fully functional, handling weapons and shit."

That sobered Sam up a bit. Dean--armed and asleep at 5:30 a.m. Not a good thing. Back-up. His brother had called for back-up and that was what he was going to get. "Listen, Dean, make time your bitch, dude. You only have to fight it for an hour or so and then you're good to go at 6:30, right, man? Sixty minutes. You can do it."

"Okay. One minute at a time, right?"

"Yeah, and just sixty of them. You can fake it until then. Pretend you're visiting with Mrs. Hastings. Just nod and do whatever they tell you to, even if it's just reaching on the top shelf to straighten some porcelain kitten or something. You've done it all your life, Dean. You can do it now. Just six weeks. Less now, in fact." Faking it. With assault rifles and live grenades. Oh, boy.

"Look, Sammy, they're signaling my time's up, so I gotta go. Thanks for the mini pep rally. I'll let you know if it works out, okay?"

"Okay. And, Dean?"

"Yeah, man?"

"Shave at night."

Dean laughed. "I hear you, bro."

*

"Dude, I'm so through."

Sam frowned at the telephone. "With what? The Academy?" Wow. That was quick. Had he blown it up? Nah. Surely that would've been on the news. He searched for the TV's remote control.

"No, man, with the 0530 bitch. Beast Barracks is history. I'm now officially a Cadet Private, Fourth Class, also known as a plebe. That sounds like something that might burst if you poke your finger in it, doesn't it? Anyway, now breakfast is at 0700. The bitch is tamed!"

"I'm so happy for you," Sam drawled. He hadn't been able to remember CNN's channel number anyway. "Now I won't have to listen to your whining."

"I don't whine, Sammy."

Sam laughed and handed the phone to his dad.

*****

"Sam?"

He looked up from his paper on the government's failure to protect troops in the Gulf War. Dean was probably going to kick his ass for it. "What's up, Dad?"

His father sat on the arm of the sofa and looked pained. "I--ah, I went down to the library to research a Liderc because I knew you were working on your paper."

"Thanks, Dad." So why was he interrupting him now? Dean hadn't mentioned that there'd be another "talk." The sex one had been years ago and the career/do better in school one would've been useless.

"When I came out, there was a--woman, well, actually a group of women standing near my truck. They asked how--Sweet D--was doing at West Point. I assumed they meant Dean."

Sam nodded. He could see where this was going.

"They were...working women, son."

"Charity and her girls," Sam supplied, hiding a snort.

"Yeah, I think she mentioned her name was Charity when she, uh, gave me a kiss to give to Dean. And, man, what a kiss it was." Dad shivered and turned red as he remembered. "Why is your brother on first name basis with a group of--"

"Prostitutes," Sam said, giving his dad a break. "It's a long story."

"You know about them?"

"I was there when Dean went underwear shopping with them. He was sixteen."

Dad stood abruptly and headed for the kitchen. "About that long story, Sammy," he called, halfway out the room, "I don't think I wanna know."

Sam laughed so hard, he got a headache.

Yeah, Dean was _so_ going to kick his ass.

*****

John sipped his morning coffee and wondered at the amount of noise one more person in the house could make. Dean had been home for Christmas break for a little over a day and the difference around the place was very noticeable. Extra dishes. Extra laundry. Conversation and the TV well into the night.

Slamming doors.

"Morning, Dad."

John turned to watch Dean grab a glass of water. From the sweatiness and increased respiration, it was obvious his eldest had been out for a morning run. In the short time he'd been at West Point, Dean had grown broader in the shoulders and more muscular all over. He moved differently, with more fluid grace and power. The Army was making a man out of his boy. "Morning, son. How's the weather?"

"Cold, but sunny. Good football weather. By the way, you wanna go with us today?"

"Go where?"

"To the bowl game Kansas City managed to snag. What's it called? The Nabisco Bowl? Kellogg? Some food stuff. Anyway, I have an extra ticket." Dean finished the water and set the glass aside. It wouldn't be bothered--the striped glass had always been Dean's.

"I thought it was sold out?"

Dean did a couple of quick stretches. Something must've felt tight. "Yeah, but players get tickets for their families and Pinky gave me his. His mom doesn't understand the game, and his dad's so busy with his new family, he can't be bothered. The extra ticket was for him, but he called to back out. I warned him that this was his last chance to connect with Pinky, but the prick blew it off anyway."

John knew he should defend his fellow parent, but the truth of the matter was that Fred Bowman was a prick. He left his wife and son for his much younger secretary, and when the new wife gave birth to a set of twins, he'd basically ignored Pinky. John'd always made sure Pinky sat with Dean and him at the sports banquets the school held every year so the boy wouldn't look like he was sitting alone. "He'll eventually recognize his mistake," he said half-heartedly.

Dean sniffed his pits and grimaced. "Sure, when Pinky becomes a football star or something, and he wants his cut. Gonna be in for a hell of a lot of disappointment, though. Pinky's not gonna have anything to do with him."

I'll see to that, John heard, although Dean didn't say it. Normally, he'd tell Dean to back off, but Dean had been taking care of Pinky for so long, he knew it'd be a waste of breath. A football game sounded like fun, but... "Not sure if Sam'll go for me tagging along." Sam had been gushing about Dean coming home since Thanksgiving. He'd missed his big brother more than he wanted to admit.

"You two having problems?" Dean asked warily.

"Actually, no." John had been surprised at how well he and Sam had been getting along. "A lot less eye rolls than expected. I think he realizes he has to rely on me for rides to and from his after-school events now."

"Good. I'd hate to have to beat his ass for being a bitch to you!" he bellowed loudly toward their shared room. John had asked his sons to tell him when they wanted separate rooms; the request had never come.

"Why do your threats work and mine are muttered away?" John asked with honest curiosity.

Dean grinned. "That's simple--you hurt him, and it's child abuse; I hurt him, and it's just typical sibling squabbling. You're raising a legal genius, remember?"

John was impressed. "And here I thought it was because he knew if I touched him, you'd beat _my_ ass."

Dean shrugged, providing no answer. "You don't have to worry about Sam today." He ambled down the hall, pulling his T-shirt off. "Sammy! Dad's coming with!" he called out.

"What'd you ask him for?" Sam whined.

"Two words, little bro--free snacks."

Sam even consented to let John ride shotgun to the game.


	6. Chapter 6

2001

* * *

Dean stopped in the doorway when he saw Sam, in cap and gown, looking at himself in the mirror. "Fellow nature lovers," he called in a hushed voice, "I present the geek--in its natural plumage." Sam flipped him the bird. "How apropos, little bro. Still a fugly color, by the way."

"This was definitely not the color we voted on in the catalog," Sam agreed.

"At least it's long enough." When he'd come home for Christmas, he'd been hard put not to drop his jaw when he'd seen how tall Sam was. His dad had mentioned the growth spurt on the phone, but hearing it was nothing compared to seeing it. It would've been intimidating, except that daily training had Dean excessively fit. When they ran together, Sam had him in a sprint, but Dean won by a literal mile in endurance.

"It was special order--like a basketball player's."

"Well, I didn't think you got it at Freaks-R-Us."

Sam tore his eyes away from the mirror. "Speaking of Freaks-R-Us, you're not wearing your uniform to my graduation, are you?"

"And deprive all those delicate females of swooning over a man in uniform while you bore them to tears with your valedictory address?" Dean grinned when Sam rolled his eyes. Six feet plus a gazillion inches, and Sam was still easy to wind up. Then he noticed something in the reflected hazel eyes. "How come you're looking scared to death, dude?"

"You, um, mentioned my speech."

"Your val speech? Please don't tell me you're nervous about that. You've been writing it since when? Seventh grade?"

"Sixth," Sam admitted.

"So what's with the nerves? You've never had trouble standing up in front of a crowd and giving your opinion." Dean had heard stories about Sam's "reign" as student body president. Made Dean look like a teddy bear in comparison. Sam shrugged and Dean sighed. "Listen, bro, if you start to screw up, I'll just set off a small explosion in the corner of the stadium or something."

Sam turned around to glare at him. "Don't you dare!"

"Then don't screw up. It's in your hands, dude."

Sam rolled his eyes and went back to straightening his robe. "You're supposed to encourage me, assure me that everyone makes mistakes, etc. You're not supposed to threaten to blow up the stadium."

Dean grinned. "Whatever works, bro. Now, about my uniform. I'm planning on staying casual, your highness. Gonna make Coach V cry, though. He really wants to parade me around to the other teachers. Seems some of them didn't quite agree with him when he said I was West Point material. Guess he's just going to have to make do with flashing those pictures he took at my graduation. Still in shock over the fact he made it there."

"Less shock than seeing Charity and the ladies arrive in their rented van?"

"I knew they were coming, even lined them up some business for later on."

Sam turned beet red. "You didn't!"

"I did. Everybody didn't have a ton of family showing up for the ceremonies and they needed someone to celebrate with. At least my ladies wouldn't leave them with potentially drug resistant reminders."

"You know, most people just give their fellow graduates a pat on the shoulder and say congratulations."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "When have we ever been most people, Sam? So, come on. Ball that sucker up in the closet and--"

"Missouri just steamed all the packaging wrinkles out. If you think I'm not going to gingerly take this off and hang it on the padded hanger she supplied, the Army really has burnt out your one remaining brain cell." He carefully removed the robe and draped it around said hanger.

Missouri scared him more than all his Academy instructors combined, so Dean refrained from calling Sam a wuss. "They're sending that one brain cell to M.I.T., so I'm sure they're going to hang onto it."

"You in a weapons lab is the start of the end of the world as we know it," Sam said as he adjusted the hanger across the top of the door, so that the robe was safely above the floor.

"I'm being sent to M.I.T. to further my studies."

"You're being sent to M.I.T. because the Department of Defense is funding Lincoln Lab. And no, I'm not going to ask what you're doing because one, you won't tell me, and two, I don't want to know."

"I'm going to get graduate credits," Dean defended himself. "Just because it isn't Stanford... By the way, do you really want to get into how the University of California system is contracted to the Department of Energy for nuclear research?"

"You know, it used to be easier to win a debate with you when you were stupid," Sam conceded.

"As I told you before: brains, beauty, and brawn. I'm a triple threat, Sammy."

"But you still have stubby legs," Sam said and raced out of the room.

Dean wasn't far behind.

*****

John let himself into the house and tossed the mail on the table. There was no TV playing, no stereo blasting, nobody lazily making dinner with a telephone attached to their ear. Dean was off at M.I.T.--and officially outranked him since being commissioned at graduation. If he wasn't so damn proud, that might have bothered him a bit. Lieutenant Winchester. Yeah, that never failed to bring a smile to his face. Sammy, _Sam_, was off at Stanford (free of charge thanks to the kindness of scholarship committees and Sammy's superbrain) getting into whatever college students got into these days. Whatever it was, he knew Sam was in his own personal heaven--libraries and professors and people who knew way more than him and were willing to share. Sammy-nirvana for sure.

So, John was home alone for the first time since Mary had sauntered into his life and settled in. Nobody to feed. Nobody to pick up. Nobody waiting for him to do anything at all. Nobody waiting...period. And this alone business was probably not just for the next four years. Dean was enjoying the hell out of the Army. Sam wouldn't come back to Lawrence to practice law. Sam was as much of a "defender of the people" as Dean was. He would champion the poor, the ignored, the ones who couldn't find anyone else to fight for them. If John was lucky, Sam would choose the nearby Ozarks area. But he knew it mostly depended on where Dean was eventually assigned. His boys were tight. Although they had an entire country between them at the moment, both knew it wasn't--wouldn't ever be--a permanent separation.

People down at the garage were always asking how he'd manage to raise two brothers who didn't hate each other. What about the sibling rivalry and jealousy? He always shrugged, not willing to tell them that the boys had figured out long ago that they weren't rivals. Not only were they so different that they existed in separate circles of influence, but Dean would never begrudge Sam John's love and Sam, as long as he knew Dean loved him, couldn't give a damn about what John felt or did--unless John wasn't treating Dean right. Then Sam would give him hell.

John chuckled. Everybody remarked how nice his kids were, how obedient and kind, not a mean bone in their bodies. But he knew the truth: he'd raised a couple of the friendliest, sweetest, vicious attack dogs he'd ever come across. Come between them, come after them, just look at one of them the wrong way, and you'd be staring at your ass handed to you own a plate. He knew this from experience; his ass had its own silver platter.

Raised. Past tense. He'd stayed and raised his kids just as he'd vowed that night racing back to Kansas to be there for Sam's first birthday. And now, he was done.

"I did it, honey," he said quietly to the empty house. "_We_ did it. Created two little miracles who are now successful young men. Both intelligent enough to scare me. Both with generous hearts. Both out in the world and about to take it by storm. They don't need me anymore, sometimes I wonder if they ever needed me at all... Yeah, yeah, I sound like one of those women on _Oprah_-- Abe's granddaughter likes to watch when she's going over the paperwork. Hell, I know they needed me, just to pay the bills if not for anything else." He gave a sad smile. "I'm selling myself short, because I know our boys love me...and I love them so damn much."

His sigh echoed through the empty spaces, and he shook his head at his Sad Sack routine. Poor John, nothing to do but sit around and whine about not having anything to do.

Yeah, right.

He picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. "Hey, Bobby. Seems like I've found myself with an empty nest and extra time. Thought I'd go back to school like my boys. If you're ready to teach Demons 101, professor, I'm ready to learn."

*****

Something struck him in the head and Sam sat up, prepared to fight back.

"Answer your goddamned phone, Winchester!"

"Huh?"

"Your fucking cell phone, man! Answer it before I toss it out the window."

Sam shook his head to clear it, then stumbled to his desk before his roommate went through with his plans. He squinted at tiny LCD screen. Just after six in the morning and...Dad? A worm squirmed through his belly. "What's wrong?" he asked instead of the usual greeting.

"Is Dean still at M.I.T.?"

"What?"

"Is Dean still at M.I.T.?" Sam pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. "Answer the question, damnit!" he heard exclaimed in a still loud voice.

He put the phone back to his ear gingerly. Something had his dad spooked. That--wasn't good. "Dad, what's going on? Just tell me!"

Dad sighed. "Turn on the news, son. I can't--Just turn on the news."

"Okay. Hold on." Sam fumbled for the remote to the small TV.

"What the fuck are you doing, Winchester?"

Sam ignored his roommate and stared at the screen. At first he couldn't make any sense of what he was seeing and the reporters' voices were just noise. Then it all became clear. "They flew planes into the World Trade Center? Who? What? Dad?"

"They think it's a terrorist attack, Sammy. I need to know if you know where your brother is. I tried calling, but phone lines are all screwed up."

"Um, let me..." Sam logged onto his computer. "I'm gonna try email, Dad. Just give me a minute and..."

"Is that real?" Wilson asked. "Is that fucking real?"

Sam nodded and tapped the desk as he waited for his email to load. "Dad, I have an email from Dean! It's timed stamped just a few minutes ago! Let me see, let me see. Okay, here it is:

Sam, Where's Dad? I'm fine. Dad's not on a hunt, is he? Find Dad. I gotta go. They're moving us. I'll contact you when I can. Let me know about Dad. By the time you get your ass out of bed and read this, you'll know why. D.

"He's okay, Dad. He's okay." He plopped down onto a chair, suddenly boneless with relief.

"Dean's okay?" Dad repeated.

"He's okay."

"Daughtry's fucking from New York." Wilson stumbled toward the door. Daughtry lived two rooms down.

"What is this, Dad? What's happening?" Sam nearly whispered.

"The world's changing, son. Just remember we're all okay. Hold on to that."

"What about Pastor Jim and Uncle Bobby? They weren't out on a hunt or anything, were they? These may not be the only attacks."

"They're fine, Sammy. Jim's the one who called me. I've talked to Bobby, too."

"Good, good. We're okay, aren't we, Dad?"

"Yeah son. We're okay."

*

By the time John finished calling everyone to tell them Dean was fine, he felt like he'd been up for days. He started a pot of coffee and just as it finished perking, the first tower collapsed. John sat in horror as the pictures repeated themselves and reporters asked stupid, insensitive questions to people who were too numb to notice how stupid and insensitive the questions were. Then, the second tower fell and he prayed for the first time since Mary died. He'd been in war. He'd seen smoke and fire and death that bled. But that had been war. This was...this was going to work in the morning and never making it to the first coffee break. This was "Stop by the cleaners on the way home, honey," and "honey" never walking through the door again. This was heartache and anguish and disbelief on screen again and again without the same situation being repeated twice.

Why, he thought as they showed the Pentagon in pieces and the plane in Pennsylvania, did demons even bother trying to destroy humanity, when humanity was quite capable of destroying itself with much grander fanfare? This was what he and Jim and Bobby and other hunters put their lives on the line to save? Maybe Dean had the right idea. Maybe he was fighting a better fight than any hunter could. Maybe demons weren't the worst beings walking the face of the earth.

Maybe Mary was the lucky one, dying before she could witness such wanton destruction.

Knowing he had to stop his downward spiral, John grabbed his keys and headed outside. The neighborhood was quiet. No kids were allowed outside. People had come home from work early and bunkered in with their families. Air traffic had been grounded and there was a stillness to the sky that made him shiver. He got into his truck and drove. He didn't know where he was heading until he found himself in the parking lot of KU's library.

He sat there for ten minutes before someone tapped on his window. Reaching over, he unlocked the door and opened it for her. "We've heard from Dean," he said, reading the worry on her face. "He's good. I just thought...well, you ladies drove to see his graduation, so I figured..."

Charity nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Winchester."

He stuck out his hand. "John. My name is John."

She looked at his hand, smiled, then shook it. "Little Bro okay, too?"

"Yeah. Both the boys...they're doing fine."

"And what about you, John?"

He shrugged. What could he say? The world had paddled up shit creek, but his boys were okay. He had no major complaints. "It's been a hell of a day."

She patted the hand she'd just shook. "Why don't you come and sit with me for a spell, John? I have some bourbon I've been saving for a special day, and I don't think they come any more special than this."

He paused, then shook his head. "I should go home. See if my boys call."

"You have your cell, don't you? Come on, we'll just be two friends commiserating together."

"Dean..."

"Sweet D will laugh his ass off when he finds out. He's been trying to get you laid for years."

"I get laid!" John blurted out, then felt the red sear up his neck. "I mean--"

Charity laughed. "It's okay. I know a good-looking man like you wouldn't have any trouble securing female companionship, so trust me, this isn't about pity. Just a brief respite from the insanity of the day."

"That sounds...nice." He got out of the truck, then went around it to gallantly help her down. "All I ask is that you let me tell Dean."

"Sure, John. I can keep a secret."

"A secret? Hell, I just want to wait until he has a mouth full of pop. Bubbles up the nose can hurt like a bitch."

In a night of silence, laughter was a gift.

*

"You a church-going man, Winchester?"

Sam looked up as his roommate joined him in the garden of the New Life Affirmation Church. He had no idea what denomination it was or who they even worshiped. "Not particularly. But a friend of my family is a pastor, and I just feel closer to him--and my family--in this place. His church has a garden, most of it planted by me and my brother. We spent a few summers there. Made extra money by cleaning the sanctuary after service and painting front porches for old ladies."

Wilson gave a smile that held a touch of...melancholy? "This the brother your dad called you about this morning?"

"Yeah, my only brother, sibling. Four years my senior," Sam answered easily, wondering why Wilson was standing around talking to him, instead of doing...whatever. Most of the older students had hit the bars or were holding wakes-by-proxy in their suites. Alcohol was considered a requirement.

"He go to Stanford, too?"

"No, West Point."

"Oh, military. No wonder your dad was so worried."

Sam nodded and moved down on the bench in case Wilson wanted to sit. Maybe he was a psychology major or something. Or a freshman counselor? Sam shrugged. If Wilson was using him for a term paper or research project, it was alright with him. He wanted to talk to Dean, but since Dean wasn't available... "Dean's supposed to be at M.I.T., but Dad wasn't sure if he'd been transferred or not. I know his movements much better than Dad."

"Sounds like you're close."

Sam shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. Longer than usual. If Dean could see him, he'd be dragging him to a barber. "Yeah, I guess we are. He's probably my best friend."

"And you're his?"

"Maybe. My competition for the spot is a group of prostitutes and a guy named Pinky." Wilson laughed and Sam realized he couldn't remember the guy's first name. Upperclassmen had only been in school for a week and Wilson, as a junior, spent most of his time with friends. Why wasn't he with his friends?

Wilson sat, putting one of his feet up on the bench. "Your brother sounds too wild to be an Army officer."

"Yeah, I spent four years waiting for him to get kicked out of the Academy."

"He some kinda badass?"

Sam grinned. "Dean considers himself a lover, not a fighter. But he hates bullies, and places like the Academy are full of them."

Wilson scratched at his short afro. "So, why did he go?"

Sam looked up at the stars. They seemed brighter in Kansas. "It took me years to figure it out but I think it's because of our Mom's death."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's okay. I was only six months old. Dean was four and when she died, he lost his sense of order. One day there's mommy, daddy, and crying baby brother. The next day there's no mommy, a crying daddy, and bewildered baby brother. Way more world-changing to a four-year-old than something like what went on today, you know?" He wondered how he'd have handled it if he'd been the older brother and Dean the baby. "So, anyway, he's been searching for order ever since, and the Army is nothing but order."

"What about you? You consider the Academy?"

"Hell, no," Sam answered quickly. "My sense of order is firmly rooted in Dad and Dean. That's enough order for anyone. Dad was a Marine. We got KP duty and laps as punishment our entire childhood. No way was I going to sign up for more of that."

"So your dad and brother are a lot alike?"

Sam started to answer yes, but then he thought about it. Dean listened to Dad, did what Dad did, but never in the actual way Dad did. "Actually, Dean says _I'm_ more like Dad and that's why the two of us are always butting heads."

Wilson looked confused. "I know this morning was all about the attack and everything, but I haven't noticed any bad vibes when you've talked with him before. Not that I've been eavesdropping or anything."

Sam shrugged the apology off. After living in a room with Dean all his life, his expectation of privacy was non-existent. "We don't fight, not really. We're both just highly opinionated. It was bad at times before Dean left, but he made us both promise to behave in his absence, and surprisingly enough, the truce held. Dad giving me a used Honda Accord for my sixteenth birthday went a long way in sealing our accord, no pun intended."

Wilson swatted away a bug. "Didn't have to ask him to cart you around?"

"It was more than that. It was the first time I knew that Dad _got_ me, got that I wasn't some younger, screwed up version of Dean. Dean's car is a gas-guzzling, muscle car--a '67 Impala."

"Sweet," Wilson crooned, then winced. "In a gas-guzzling sorta way," he amended.

Sam laughed. "It's okay. I'm used to guys drooling over Dean's car. It was Dad's until he gave it to Dean. Well, according to family legend, it was always Dean's and Dad was just taking care of it for him." He had to grin as he thought of the Impala. "Dean and that car have always been an item, the only indication I've ever had that my brother knows what the word _monogamy_ means. He calls the Impala his baby and talks to her and stuff. It'd be embarrassing if it wasn't such a manly car.

"But the thing is that the Impala isn't _my_ kind of car, and Dad knew me well enough to figure that out. He owns a garage, so he basically had his pick of cars that he could've restored to give to me. But he picked an environmentally correct one. He knew _me_." Sam shook his head in wonder. Then he fixed a stare on his roommate. "Why're you here, listening to me as I wax poetically about my family? I know you have to have something better to do."

Wilson gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "Your life's like a TV show, man. It's so _Happy Days_, _Andy Griffith_. And I really don't mean that in a bad way. I mean, it's nice to know there really are families that get along." He stared at a statue in the center of the garden. It was female, so Sam figured it was Mary. Whether it was Mary, mother of Jesus, or Mary Magdalene, the whatever of Jesus, that was beyond his religious training.

"_My_ brother?" Wilson continued, never taking his eyes from the statue. "He slept with my girlfriend, got her pregnant, and the only one in the family who didn't know it wasn't mine was me. Only when I started to turn down the scholarship to here--so I could get a job and take care of my baby--did Mama finally tell me the truth."

"Harsh, man," Sam consoled. He couldn't imagine Dean doing something like that to him, although he knew for a fact that at least one of his girlfriends had thrown herself at Dean. Whatever Dean had replied, the girl had gasped and stomped away. Sam had told her the next day to consider herself back on the market.

"And my sister? When I was five, she offered me to her drug dealer for a free stash. Thank God he wasn't into pedophilia."

"Fuck," Sam whispered and tried to hide it with a cough. He didn't want Wilson to think he pitied him, nor did he want him laughing at Sam's naivete. Sam knew what went on in the world. He just never thought he'd know someone who lived it.

"So, I spend my summers apartment sitting and working odd jobs around here. I haven't been home since I left and don't plan on ever going back. Stanford's the ticket to being normal and for me, it's a one-way trip," Wilson said very matter-of-factly. He took a deep breath and rubbed at his chin. "You give me hope, Opie. When you talk to your family, you laugh, man, you smile. Maybe when I've made it, have my own family, my kids can get along like you and your brother. And hell, maybe they won't hate me like I hate my parents."

"You're here, man, at Stanford. That's says something about you, about who you are and who you can be." Sam noticed the streets around them were getting quieter. "And we Winchesters aren't perfect. Dean can be an absolute pain in the ass when he wants to be, tormenting me just because he can. I mean, I learned to read really early because Dean was always feeding me all this bullshit, and I needed to read just to defend myself. And I've already told you about drill sergeant Dad."

"Doesn't matter. When you talk about them, the love comes out. You're family, and you're proud of it, proud of them."

Sam nodded. Wow. Who would've thought his family would be something to strive for? But he couldn't deny he loved them. The fear he'd felt when he'd seen Dad's name on his cell phone, the relief he'd felt when he saw Dean's email, that spoke volumes about what he felt--even if he never said the words. Pride? He wasn't fond of the military, but when Dean was up on that stage at graduation, uniform all perfect and shiny, he couldn't help grinning and he just wanted to yell, "That's my big brother!"

He got up and stretched. He'd apparently been sitting for some time, if his stiffness was any indication. "Come on, man. There's a curfew tonight. We better get back to the dorm. And by the way, Opie was a redhead."

Wilson punched his arm. "Opie is a mindset, my brother. And you are the Opiest Opie I've ever met. Finally, a roommate I won't have to run off before Christmas break."

"Try it and I'll sic my big brother on you."

"Oh, no! Fonzie's coming! Fonzie's coming!"

All Sam could do was laugh. Dean would absolutely love the name.

TV Land made for strange bedfellows.


	7. Chapter 7

2003

* * *

"Hey, Sam."

Sam juggled his cell phone to his other hand. "Dean, how are you, man?" He sat down on a wall in front of the classroom building he'd just left. Even though he was a sophomore, it was still hard to accept such sun and warmth in February. He guessed he was still a Kansas boy at heart.

"Fine. Just calling to tell you I'm being transferred."

"Yeah, to that cushy Pentagon job you've been talking about?" Dean knew weapons so well, one of his commanding officers wanted him to go to the Pentagon with him.

"Um, no. Afghanistan."

"What?" Sam let his backpack slide off his arm. "What are you saying? You're going into combat? Since when, man?"

"Since I got my orders this morning."

No. Dean wasn't the Army's cannon fodder. He was their brain in weapons development. Sam had called Dean on that once, but Dean had explained that he wasn't designing artifacts to kill, his designs were to make sure that his fellow servicemen came back home in one piece. That's all he could divulge to Sam, but Sam understood. Dean was playing big brother as usual, even if he didnt know all his little brothers and sisters personally. "Dean, something doesn't sound right."

"Yeah, I know. But I have to follow orders, Sam."

"Have you talked to Colonel Morrison?" That was Dean's direct CO, the one who was determined Dean go with him to Washington.

"He's in special session with Congress and can't be disturbed."

Sam quickly thought through his schedule. No major tests in the next few days. He could fly out and see Dean--just in case. "When--when do you leave?"

"Tonight."

Sam froze, more alarms going off in his head. "No, Dean. It doesn't happen that way. You know it doesn't. There are steps and protocols. This is wrong."

Silence. "You feel it, too?" Dean finally murmured.

Sam's stomach did a back flip. "Feel what? Are you hesitating, Dean? Is your CYA alert going off? If it is, you can't go, man! Stall until you can talk to the colonel." Yeah, he was yelling, but he didn't care and neither did the students around him. Probably thought he was yelling at a girlfriend or a stupid friend who didn't get the basketball tickets he was supposed to get. No one ever considered he was yelling at his brother who was about to go off and get himself killed!

"Maybe it's just the idea of being on a plane that long," Dean hedged.

Despite the number of sky miles Dean had--flying out to California or home to Kansas or anywhere the Army wanted to send him, like some weapons conference in England--Dean was a nervous flyer and the thought of him suffering through an overseas flight made Sam shiver sympathetically. Sam relaxed his grip on the phone and tried to get his thoughts together. "You got something?" The Army doctors had given Dean a prescription for a light sedative for the England trip.

"Nah, and I don't have time to set up an appointment."

Shit. The whole thing was fucked up, but Dean sitting petrified on a plane for God knows how many hours, wasn't going to happen. He couldn't change the orders but he could change that. "Go downtown or to one of the universities and make a buy."

"What?"

"This is your pre-law baby brother speaking: go score something, Dean." If they were lucky, he'd get it from an undercover cop and Dean wouldn't be able to leave tonight. It'd be his first offense, and if he got an understanding judge, he might get off with just a warning. If not, then hell, at least he wouldn't be in Afghanistan and that would still be a win.

Of course, the Army could--and probably would--kick him out, regardless of a conviction, but Sam didn't consider that to be a problem. He was grateful to the Academy for giving Dean the confidence and motivation to actually use his brain for something other than how to score with some girl, but in his opinion, the Army had outlived its usefulness. Dean's education made him valuable not just as an officer but as a man. The private sector would be knocking on his door in a heartbeat.

"Advocating drug use. I knew you'd go wild in California."

"Dean."

"Yeah, okay. I'll go see what the local dealer is peddling. If I get caught, I'm gonna tell Dad it's your fault. And speaking of Dad, he's on a hunt and his cell's off. Tell him for me, would you?"

Sam glanced up at the bright sun overhead. Should be fucking raining. "Who'd you tick off, Dean? Some fucker's messing with your orders, and you know it! What'd you do, man?"

"Take care of yourself and Dad, Sammy. I'll be in touch."

Sam stared at his closed phone. This wasn't supposed to happen. Dean was supposed to blow things up in a lab or squint through some computer numbers. Sam had had a mini ethical dilemma when it hit him that his brother was devising more efficient and expedient ways to kill people for a system that already had murder down to an art form. But when he weighed that against other people more efficiently and expediently trying to kill his brother, well, it was no contest. Dean safe on this side of the world was the only answer to that ethical quagmire. And now the Army had taken that away. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

Some bitch was going to pay for this.

*****

"Tay, it's Sam." Wilson's first name had turned out to be Taylor, and when Dean had come to see Sam after nine-eleven, the two of them had hit it off from the moment Dean had held up two thumbs and said, "Ayeeee." Then he'd called him "Flip" Wilson and Tay had been named an honorary Winchester.

"What's up, Opie?"

Sam remembered when he was a kid he thought that just saying something would make it true. So he was never one to yell, "I wish you were dead!" or something like that to Dean or Dad. As he grew older, he realized that whether he spoke the words or not, some things were true no matter what.

"Dad just called. Dean's MIA."

"Oh, shit, man. Where are you? I can be there in five minutes."

Taylor had finally gotten to stay in one of the apartments he'd sat for the summer, so he and Sam were no longer roommates, but were still close friends and the first one he'd called after Dean had told him about Afghanistan. "Dad's getting me a plane ticket."

"Okay, man. I'll drive you to the airport."

"I can--"

"Huh uh. I let you get killed on the freeway and Fonzie'll hand me my ass. I'm heading to your dorm. Be there or I'll track your ass down."

*

"How long?" Sam asked as soon as he was in speaking distance.

"His patrol is forty-eight hours overdo."

"And they've already notified you?"

John led the way through the airport to his truck. "After you told me about Dean's reassignment, I called Coach Vanderpool. He considers Dean one of his men, and he has military contacts that the President would envy. He started digging, and you were right: Dean's orders were supposed to be for the Pentagon. The screw up's being investigated, but in the meantime Dean's supposed to be shipped immediately back to the States. Except Dean can't be found. There's been no word about American hostages, so maybe it's just a miscommunication."

"Or maybe Dean's body is in a shallow grave."

John squeezed the back of Sam's neck in warning. The automatic doors parted and they stepped into the brisk Midwestern air. "I don't want to hear talk like that. Your brother is the most resourceful person we know, and that's saying something. If he's in trouble, he'll either talk his way out, love his way out, fight his way out, or all three in some ridiculous combination that'd only be believable in Hollywood."

Sam slowly nodded. "Yeah, that sounds like him. You say they're investigating what happened?"

"Yeah." He pulled out his keys as the truck came into view.

"Well, I know where to start." Sam punched the door of the truck as he waited for John to unlock it. "I warned him. I told him to keep his fucking head down. But when I saw his roommate, I knew it was only a matter of time."

"What are you talking about, Sammy?" John wondered if Sam was going into shock or something. His boys were close and if something really had happened to Dean, he wasn't sure his other son would ever get over it.

John knew _he_ wouldn't.

Sam's seatbelt latched into place with a sharp click. "His roommate, Harriman, I think. Geeky, bad skin. Probably wouldn't have made it to the Academy if he hadn't been a legacy cadet. The perfect target for assholes who get their jollies by picking on people they feel are inferior."

John was silent for a moment as he concentrated on getting out of the parking lot. He knew he could drive, but he was unconvinced about the other assholes in the lot. He didn't speak again until he was on the highway heading to Lawrence. "What does all of that have to do with your brother?"

Sam patted his foot impatiently. "Harriman was his roommate, Dad. Dean would feel responsible for him. If he got harassed, Dean would be on someone's ass, whether it was an upperclassman or not."

John shook his head. His son had never been the wishy-washy type. When Dean had committed to the Academy, he'd committed fully. "He wouldn't have risked being kicked out for fighting."

"There are more ways to fight than with fists, Dad. You know that resourcefulness you were just talking about?" John cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah, Dean's got it in bunches and he's not afraid to use it."

"And you think this person, or persons, went after this Harriman?" Sam nodded. "And Dean went after them?" Another nod. "And they waited this long to get their revenge?" Sam's surety was becoming convincing.

"I really do. Have Coach V track down Harriman, and I betcha he can name names."

"A conspiracy," John whispered, his foot pressing down on the accelerator. "A goddamn conspiracy against my boy. If this is true, they better hope they get life sentences from the Army."

"I hope the fuck they don't."

John had no reply.

*

"Sam, they've found Dean's patrol."

Sam sat up in bed and blinked rapidly at his father. "And? How is he? What condition--"

"Coach V doesn't know yet. He's getting the info as quickly as possible but there're a lot of miles between here and Afghanistan, son."

"Don't patronize me."

Dad straightened from where he'd been leaning against the doorframe. "I'm not. I'm just as worried as you, okay?"

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He knew Dad was worried; had watched him pace the house for the past two days, haggard and unshaven, phone clenched in his hand. Sam had managed a couple of hours of sleep, but he wasn't sure if his father had gotten any. "Sorry. I--" Dad just nodded his understanding. "Just tell me one thing, though--is he alive?"

"He's on his way to a hospital. That's all Coach knew for sure."

Sam watched his dad pad barefooted out of the room. Hospital not morgue. Not a bodybag. Not one of those freakin' flag-draped coffins you were supposed to consider an honor. No fuckin' twenty-one gun salute.

He wiped away an escaping tear and lay back down. The pillow bunched under his head just like he liked it. Dean's pillow, actually. Dean's bed, too.

He wondered if Dad had noticed.

*

"Sam...my."

"Dean." Sam took a deep breath and tried to hold it together. "The nurse explained to Dad that you wouldn't rest until you talked to us. So rest."

"Why isn't...your ass...at Stanford?"

Apparently his brief stint as a prisoner of war hadn't stopped Dean from asking stupid questions. "Didn't want to miss the hell of a wake we were going to throw for you. Already had the kegs ordered."

"Hope you didn't make a...deposit. They don't...like giving them back."

Sam laughed and flinched when the sound got too close to being a sob. "As long as they gave _you_ back, dude. Thank God for that."

"Don't...thank God. Thank...m'ladies. Taught me how...to get out of...'cuffs."

Sam laughed again, until he had to give the phone to his dad because his hands were shaking so badly. He was dimly aware when Dad said his goodbyes, and by the time he was pulled tightly into arms he hadn't fallen into since elementary school, he was openly weeping.

He felt wet drips on his head and knew he wasn't crying alone.

*****

"And they're not going to try to cover this up?"

"Of course they're going to cover this up," Dean said, shooting Sam a look that said he should know better than to think otherwise. "What they did--three Academy-trained officers--is an embarrassment to the entire Long Gray Line. But it's only getting covered up in regards to the public. There's going to be a court-martial and it's not going to be pretty, trust me. That good enough for you, Matlock?"

Sam tried to see the situation from Dean's point of view, tried to understand why Dean wasn't foaming at the mouth in anger. Dad had been right about it being a conspiracy. Lieutenants Atkinson, Mills, and Logan had forged signatures, changed computer records, and impersonated other officers just to get Dean to the front lines in Afghanistan. As soon as Lt. Harriman had learned Dean was missing, he'd given up the names of his tormentors back at the Academy. From there, and considering Harriman's grandfather was a retired general, the plot began to unravel.

By the time Dean was back in the States and recuperating in Lawrence, the three goons were in custody, and Dean figured they wouldn't see the light of day for quite some time. But he wasn't angry, just resigned. Sure, Dean was part of the Long Gray Line, too--the thousands of Academy graduates in their standard gray dress uniforms that linked past to present to future--but still, he should be feeling more fury than he was. Maybe the answer was in the past.

"What did you do?"

"When, where, and I'm admitting nothing until I'm given more details," Dean quipped.

Asshole. "To Atkinson and the others? They waited years to get revenge on you. What did you do to them?"

Dean smiled and shifted on the sofa. Sam hurried to adjust the pillows behind him. Although Dean never specifically mentioned what had been done to him as an Afghani captive, it was taking him a while to get over it. "I warned them, Sammy."

"I know." Dean always warned before he struck. Some weird code he'd lived by since forever.

"They stripped Harriman to his boxers and poured glycerin down his fly to make it looked like he'd pissed himself. Of course, being terribly unoriginal, they taped him to the flagpole on the parade grounds. Me and a couple others freed him when we gathered for reveille. He was fucking trembling from exposure and humiliation. For a while I wasn't sure whether he'd quit the Academy or do something more--permanent. It was standard hazing shit, embarrassingly juvenile, but Harriman didn't know how to cope with humiliation."

"Must not have had an older brother," Sam muttered.

Dean looked at him speculatively. "He didn't. Only child. But tell me something, Sam. How would you handle someone humiliating you?"

"Before or after I beat their ass?"

"Exactly."

Sam reluctantly had to admit that maybe Dean had a point. Living with Dean had left him well-equipped to handle just about every situation. His had to have been the most unmolested geek squad in the history of geek squads. Disdain had been their reaction of choice, but violence and pay back had also entered their repertoire when necessary. If someone had taped him to a flagpole, they probably would've found the pole crammed up their ass the next day.

"My tormentor, my savior," he found himself saying. How screwed up was that? But at least Dean attempted to keep the most humiliating moments a private thing between the two of them. And when pay back came around--and Sam was by no means a slow learner--Dean was always a good sport about it.

Dean nodded. "I asked Harriman to trust me and keep hanging in there, that I'd make sure they'd pay. He didn't believe me. We were plebes and they were First Classmen, their last year and all. How in the hell could I do something to them that wouldn't get me kicked out? It was definitely a challenge."

"And you've never met a challenge you could ignore, even though I told you to keep your fucking head down."

"Sammy, Sammy. Birds gotta fly and fish have to swim--"

"And Dean Winchester takes care of his own," Sam completed.

"Exactly," Dean said matter-of-factly. "I waited until Review Day. We had to spit polish our shoes, make sure all the creases in our uniforms are perfectly straight, that kind of shit. Typically, some old officers show up to give us the evil eye and look for buttons turned the wrong way or a frayed collar."

Sam scoffed. As if a bullet or nuclear bomb cared if a soldier had wrinkled clothes.

Dean ignored him as usual. "Well, there's one old general who always showed up with his young hottie of a wife--probably more to show her off than to inspect the cadets. She was porn star hot, Sam. One look at her and you definitely got stirred up, you know? One look at him and your genitals headed in the opposite direction. So he goes trailing down the line, eyes grazing over us like we're livestock up for auction. Anyway, he reaches three cadets who are at attention in more ways than one. He stares and their nether parts stare right back at him, straining the sturdy fabric of their uniforms." Dean stopped and gave a scratchy cough.

Sam handed him a glass of water with a straw. "Drink."

Dean glared but did as ordered before continuing his story. "The general gets hot under the collar, literally. I mean, his neck is fire engine red. He growls for his aide to take his wife away and he blasts the three, spitting and sputtering about the degradation his wife had suffered, the affront to all the Academy stands for, blah, blah, blah. But nothing he does makes them, um, retreat. Finally, he has the miscreants--he actually used the word _miscreants_, Sammy--taken away because he can't stand the sight of them. The three manage to graduate, but they're stripped of their honors and medals." He paused and gave a smirk. "It's physiologically amazing what having a ground up little blue pill for breakfast can do."

Sam gasped. "You didn't!"

"Not personally--I don't need any pharmaceutical enhancements."

"Yeah, you're just naturally a dog."

Dean put his hand to his chest. "Oh, you wound me, Sammy. But here's the thing--bullies always have more enemies than allies. Pay back, little bro, can be a bitch."

Sam was duly impressed with his big brother. And horrified. "Are they the only three? Or do we have more devious plots to look forward to?"

"The Academy is nothing more than a gossip pit. After that, it was, 'Don't touch him, he's one of Winchester's boys.' The idea of me just kept growing," Dean said proudly.

"Well, if there was a pill to make the ego grow, you wouldn't need it either." He snatched up the pillow Dean was getting ready to retaliate with. "So, you take any of the female cadets under your wing or was 'Winchester's boys' meant universally?"

"All the girls were mine. Not like _that_," he added when Sam raised an eyebrow. "Well, occasionally like that. But it was all mutual and you know, sometimes girls have needs, too. I didn't mind, I didn't fumble, and I didn't talk. It was win-win for them. Of course, there was one cadet who took _me_ under _her_ wing."

"Yeah?" Sam was enjoying the hell out of his spring break, even if he was at home with orders to make sure Dean took it easy. It'd been a while since he'd had the chance to just sit and talk with Dean, and listen to him spin his tall-tales.

"Alicia Perkins. She was a--solid--girl, not fat but big-boned. She had five brothers and they considered her number six so, yeah, she could take care of herself. A lot of the guys at the Academy avoided her, out of fear mostly because women aren't supposed to be able to match men in bench-pressing. The muscle mass is just wrong. Of course, that never made a difference to Perkins. Me? I saw her as an ally. She said I reminded her of her smallest brother, so she took it easy on me. We got along great. Man, did she have a set of powerful thighs."

"Dean, you didn't..." Of course, he did. The only girls Dean hadn't dated and or slept with in high school were the ones who were with someone else. He was a dog, but never a poacher. Oh, and he also avoided the girls who seemed like they would get attached. Dean always warned up front that he didn't do long-term.

"What? Homely girls need loving, too, dude. Besides with the control she had of her body, who cared what she looked like." Dean blinked, then smiled angelically. "The funny thing is that I ran into her in Afghanistan. Got some good men and women working under her. She was surprised to see me, though. Pretty boys like me belong at home doing paperwork, she said. I called her a sexist pig, then found a dark corner for the two of us. Good times."

Sam laughed, amazed at Dean's resilience. Tortured for days, yet remembering the details of an auld lang syne hook up. "You're something else, man."

"She said that, too."

Sam threw the pillow he'd been holding at his brother. "By the way, that noble story about you being a jerk to teach me how to deal with adversity? It in no way absolves you of the banana condom incident."

Dean laughed so much he started coughing and Sam had to get out the sedative the doctor prescribed for such an event. As he watched his brother nap, he knew that, yeah, Dean was totally absolved.

*

"Dean."

"Hi, Dad. How's the Wendigo hunting going? Bobby threaten to kill you yet? Man, that never gets old. And I'm doing fine. You could ask Sammy, but I sent him on a chicken run for some KFC--Kansas Fried Chicken, courtesy of Missouri. She called and offered, so no, we haven't been bothering her."

Well, apparently the boy's lungs were healing. Or Sam had given him the medicine that tended to make him a bit hyper. At least it wasn't near bedtime. "Dean. About those bullets you gave me to try." John stared at his shaking hand. He would've let Bobby make the call but Bobby was shaking all over. How the hell they'd made it back to the motel in one piece was a mystery he didn't want to think about.

"Use 'em yet? I was a little concerned about the payload balance, but I think I finally got the combination right. Did it take out the Wendigo?"

"Did it..." John took a deep breath. "I did like you said, son. I shot the Wendigo from a distance and then turned away. When I looked back--when I looked back, there was nothing left except a pile of ash."

"Cool."

"I only looked away for a second, Dean." From Wendigo to ash in a flash. It'd been unreal. With flares, there was some screeching, some burning, some really bad odors fouling the air beneath heavy smoke. Dean's magic bullets--easier to use by far than flares--left nearly no residue, just really fine ash that would blow away in the next puff of wind.

"Uh huh."

John rubbed his bristled jaw nervously. "You, um, haven't shared these with the Army, have you, son?"

"Nah. It was just something I did in my spare time. Just a hobby."

The lumpy motel bed caught him as his knees gave out. He looked over at his companion. "He says it's just a hobby, Bobby."

The man lifted his sweat-stained cap and scratched at his head. "You used to send him to bed without dessert. You made him do wind sprints because he cussed when Jim was around. Just tell me one thing, John? Did'ya know how dangerously you were living?"

There was one of those warehouse stores he passed on the highway that specialized in school supplies. Probably had finger-paint by the gallon. How many gallons would it take to cover Bobby's truck? Pink? Nah, that lime green shit. Maybe in day-glo?

"Dad? You still there?"

John gave Bobby an evil smile that had his former best friend eyeing him warily. "I'm here, son. I should be home by morning. Save some of that chicken for me."

"Will do. See you tomorrow, Dad."

"Yeah, son. Tomorrow." John tossed the phone onto the table between the beds. "A hobby. A goddamned hobby."

"Think if I sent him some notes on demons, he could..."

John shrugged. "Old Elkins always said he had a demon-killing gun Samuel Colt made. So, if he could do it, why not Dean? After seeing what that bullet did to the eight-foot Wendigo..."

"Heard tell of a vampire nest over in Kentucky."

John fell back on the bed. "Yeah, yeah. I'll ask Dean for more bullets tomorrow."

After all, every boy needed a hobby.

Like finger-painting.


	8. Chapter 8

2004

* * *

"Evelyn, this tall, thin bamboo stalk is my brother, Sammy."

"Sam," Sammy corrected.

Dean ignored him. "This is his girlfriend, Jessica; her best friend, Julie Murdock; and Taylor Wilson, someone Sam met at Stanford but couldn't get rid of even when the esteemed Mr. Wilson was accepted into the Wharton School of Business in that state to the north of us. Ladies and gentlemen, and Flip, this is Evelyn Holmes, PA for this office." He turned to Evelyn and gave her a pleased grin. "See? I didn't introduce you as the secretary. Because you know, bosses and secretaries can sound a bit sleazy."

Evelyn, fifty-eight, mother of three grown children, and married for forty years, rolled her eyes. "The only thing sleazy about the two of us is your lust for my meatloaf. It's nice to meet all you young people."

"Meatloaf?" Sammy asked eagerly.

"Quick, Sammy, give her your poor-motherless-boy look. I guarantee it'll be worth it."

Sam complied and Evelyn caved. "Ed's getting tired of all the meatloaf I cook since you transferred here to the Pentagon, Captain."

"So? Means more meatloaf for me. And tell Ed if he wants to complain, he can go to the classic auto shows by himself."

"Or worse, he'll take me. So you win, sir. I'll bring enough meatloaf for all y'all tomorrow."

Dean grinned in triumph. "Now you see why I don't have a steady girl, Sammy. I'm in love with a married woman."

"More like a married woman's oven," Evelyn sniped.

"That's kinky."

Evelyn shook her head in exasperation. "Y'all got plans for while youre here?"

"Sammy's looking at law schools, Jess design schools, Jules pharmacy schools, and Flip is looking at anything other than the four walls of his tacky apartment." Dean had the sneaking suspicion that Flip was there because of Julie, although the dude was really quiet about private matters. Dean was gonna have to break him of that.

"Sounds like you're gonna be busy. Your desk has been cleared for the afternoon, sir. Take your guests home and get them situated."

"Is that an order, Ms. Holmes?"

"Aye, Captain," she replied in a very bad Scottish accent.

Dean grinned. "Another TV Land addict, Flip. We're taking over the world." He grabbed his cap. "See you in the morning, Evelyn, and tell Ed I have tickets for that car show in North Carolina. Can you say, 'road trip'?"

"Can I say, 'a weekend of peace and quiet'? I'll tell him, sir."

"Well, it seems like your co-workers around here don't want to kill you," Sam said in the elevator.

"Give 'em time, Opie. He hasn't even been here a year," Flip said, good-naturedly slapping Dean on the back.

"That stuffy business school of yours doesn't seem to have affected your sense of humor," Dean replied. "Just as bad as it's always been. By the way, thanks for picking everybody up at the airport. I had a meeting I couldn't get out of."

"Captain Winchester is a very important man," Sammy sang.

"Damn straight," Dean said, squaring his shoulders. "Who else can get General Morrison's coffee juuuust right?"

"So those are 'coffee' bars on your jacket?" Jess teased, pointing to his silver captain's insignia.

"Oh, God, Jess, you're perfect for Sam. He doesn't get jokes and you can't tell them." She stuck her tongue out at him. He'd met her the Christmas before and they'd become friends. He could tell Sam was serious about her and figured she'd be an official member of the family sometime after graduation. "This is where you guys get off," he said, holding the elevator doors open. "Visitor's Parking is just through the doors. Flip, you know where Green Acres is, so don't wait on me."

Dean was the proud owner of a former horse farm in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Actually, it was more like an inheritance from a fellow Academy grad, once a POW himself--in the Korean War--who wanted his home to belong to someone who appreciated the peace and serenity of the property's location. Because he'd met the criteria left in the man's will, not to mention the approval of the man's granddaughter, he'd paid _way_ under the value of the house and land.

Sam ushered everyone else out. "I'm gonna ride with you, Dean,"

"Sure, Sammy." A few seconds later the doors opened and they headed down the hall toward the officer's lot.

"So, Green Acres?"

"Yeah, you know as in 'Green Acres is the place to be, fa-arm livin' is the life for me'," he sang, stretching out 'farm' appropriately. Sam stared blankly at him. "Now, I know you were in the house when the TV was on," he said in exasperation.

Sam hunched his shoulders. "Maybe I was reading."

"So, no point telling you that Flip calls the house the Shady Rest Hotel?" Sam shook his head. "I can't believe you never peeked at _Petticoat Junction_. The fantasies I had about that Betty Jo..."

"Captain Winchester."

Dean turned and looked into a doorway to his left. He gave a quick nod. "Colonel Medford. Sir, may I present to you my brother, Sam? Sam, this is one if my commanding officers, Col. Medford."

"So this is the infamous Sammy?" Dean bit back a snort. "Nice to finally meet you, son. We've all heard a lot about you."

"Knowing Dean, very little of it is true, Colonel."

Dean noticed Sam didn't correct the colonel about his name. Smart boy. "I've been very complimentary, haven't I, Colonel?"

Medford laughed. "I don't know about all that, but I know he's very proud of you. Law school, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"I guess if you couldn't be Army, law school's an okay option. Have a good afternoon, gentlemen."

"Thank you, sir. You do the same," Dean said. They continued their walk to the parking deck.

"You talk about me. That's sweet."

"Screw you."

"You're never going to lose the Sammy, are you?"

"It's ingrained, dude, imprinted upon my brain. Blame Dad."

"He told me _you_ started it."

"I guess you're old enough to know this, Sam--Dad can be a real rat at times."

"No," Sam drawled in feigned shock as they reached the Impala. Dean grinned as he unlocked the car and started her up. Joy could be so simple if you just let it.

He glanced at his brother meaningfully now that he was sure their conversation wasn't being monitored. He was an Army man who loved his country, etc., but wasn't naive enough to say anything in the building that he wouldn't want to listen to again. "So Jess and you are moving in together next semester," he commented. Jess had whispered that in his ear when he'd hugged her in the parking lot. "You kiddies are moving fast."

Sam shrugged. "We just know, you know? Forever and all that. Why? Don't you like her?"

Dean gave him the "are you this stupid on purpose?" look. "Of course, I like her, bro. I just--when are you gonna tell her?"

Thankfully, Sam didn't pretend not to understand. "The night before the wedding? Gee, man, when is the right time to tell your girl that your dad is a ghost hunter and that the line of salt you lay down in front of the doors and windows to supposedly keep out ants and cockroaches is really to keep out spooks and demons?"

"The right time is while she still has time to get out."

"You think I should do it before we get an apartment together."

"I think you'll know when you should do it. I just wanted to plant the notion in your head, so that you'll recognize the time when it comes. Hell, let her get used to your stinky shorts and finicky digestive system before hitting her over the head with the hard stuff. " He gave a snort. "Dad and I were always guessing just how badly the stuff we fed you would come out of you."

Sam glared at him as the car was waved through the checkpoint at the gate. Then, with a final dismissive glance, he focused out the windshield. "So, about the court martial?"

Since Dean had gotten his point made, he let Sam switch topics. "It's done. Twelve years at USDB for forgery and impersonating officers."

"USDB?"

"The U.S Disciplinary Barracks--the military prison at Ft. Leavenworth, Sam. Kinda ironic that they're in Kansas, isn't it?" He pulled his shades down from their holder on the driver's side sun visor. Letting the car steer itself for a few seconds, he used both hands to slip them on.

Sam shifted so that he was almost facing him. "What about what they did to you? What about what you suffered in Afghanistan?"

"Wasn't addressed."

"So you're letting them buy your silence with promotions?"

Dean wasn't happy about his brother's insinuations, but he just laughed. "Hey, don't diss the pay grade hikes. Got me a five-bedroom house for you and your friends to crash in. Besides, dumbass, I have my Masters now; I earned these bars."

"And what about the two men that were lost?"

Damn Sam for going there. "Goddamn it, Sam. What they did had nothing to do with what happened in Afghanistan. It was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sanders and Mitchell were killed in the initial wreck. If I could've--"

Sam slid back a little toward the window, as if he knew he'd stepped out of bounds. "I know, Dean. I'm sorry for bringing it up. I know you got everyone else out alive."

Dean thumped the steering wheel. "Bastards thought they could screw with my head. Thought a little pain could break me. Amateurs. Freaked them the hell out when I started speaking Persian and Latin." The looks on their faces were straight out of those vintage comedies that aired on late night TV, all double-takes and dropped jaws.

Sam frowned. "Latin, I get. Jim had us doing Latin masses and he's not even Catholic. Was Persian something you learned at the Academy?"

Dean laughed. "Something like that. There was a certain female cadet who--"

Sam held up his hand. "You can stop at the word _female_."

"You'd be amazed at what you can learn with the right incentives. Anyway, she had her heart set on being in Intelligence, so she needed to know the Dari dialect of Persian and Pashto. It was a good semester."

"I just bet."

Dean checked his rearview mirror. They were just ahead of the rush hour traffic. It was going to be a smooth trip home. "They weren't the most intelligent of the insurgents. I don't think they planned on having captives. Just that right/wrong place and time thing. They left me alone while they tried to figure out just who or what the hell they had in their tent. I got out and my team worked together to make sure those particular insurgents wouldn't be a problem to Americans anymore. All of that had nothing to do with Atkinson, Mills, and Logan. The bastards are guilty, but not of that."

"You're too loyal for your own good."

God, he was tired of the same old bitching. "If I'm so terrible, why the hell are you shopping around for schools here in the area?"

"They're good schools."

"Bullshit."

"Georgetown, George Washington, George Mason, and American University all have top tier law schools." Sam ticked them off on his fingers, trying to look indignant. But Dean knew he was just scrambling.

"You even have Jess looking for schools around here."

Sam gave up the pretense. "It was _her_ idea," he mumbled.

"What?"

"It was her idea, man. She got tired of me worrying about you. Said it'd be a lot easier for everyone concerned if we were in the same time zone."

Dean sighed. "Sam, man, I'm fine. I've--moved on."

Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'm happy for you, dude. But it's not that easy for me, okay? I still have these images of you being dragged through the streets by those fucking terrorists!"

"That wasn't me, Sam! I'm not some burned corpse falling apart on some fucking road in some god-fucked country. I'm here. I'm breathing. I'm living, Sam." He wrapped his hand around the back of his brother's neck and gave a gentle squeeze. "I'm here."

"Fuck me for being such a baby, man. I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. It's okay. If the situation had been reversed...yeah, I see where you're coming from."

Sam's fists were balled up in his lap. "They fucking tortured you. You're always going to be susceptible to pneumonia."

"I know. And hey, faithfully every morning I take that vitamin C echinoderm shit you send me from that witch girl out there in LaLa Land."

"Echinacea. And she's not a witch, she's just New Age." Sam glanced down at his hands and forced them to relax. "You really take it?"

"Yeah, I do, man. I'm not about to let some pansy-assed bug take me down when a whole fucking country couldn't. Not to mention, I'd have to listen to you bitch about it while I recuperate." He shrugged and gave in. "The area's ripe with opportunity. New shit popping up everywhere. You and Jess will do well around here. And since we're gonna let Flip do all our investing, we'll be all set when those little Winchesters start popping up, or should I say _out_?"

Sam laughed. "Whatever you say, don't say it in front of Jess. Her sister has her believing childbirth is the worse horror that can be visited upon a person. I think Shannon described it as 'evisceration without anesthesia.'"

"Wow, that's a loving family, isn't it? Big on sharing, too."

"Another reason why it'll be good to get out of California."

Dean took the next off-ramp. "You partial to Virginia or Maryland? I know a couple of real estate agents that give servicemen some nice breaks. I'll put in a good word for you."

"You know somebody everywhere, don't you?"

"Friends in high and low places, Sammy. I ain't picky. Speaking of friends, glad you're here this week. Next weekend I'll be in Alabama."

"Car show?" Sam asked distractedly. He was looking out the window at the fields they were passing. Dean wondered if Sam knew what was being grown. Thanks to growing up in Kansas, Dean recognized corn and wheat. Anything else was a mystery.

"Annie's getting married."

That got Sam's full attention. "Annie? Purple-haired Annie? When'd she leave the business?"

"About a year and a half ago. Her aunt, the only member of her family who'll have anything to do with her, got sick and asked Annie to come take care of her and the antique store she owns. Charity convinced her to go, and she found some good ol' boy down there."

"He know?"

"Yeah, but to him she was living the glamorous life. He's right humbled that she's willin' to give all that up for him," Dean said with a thick Southern accent.

"She know you're coming?"

"Hell, Sammy, I'm giving her away. Gonna impress that whole damn town with my dress blues."

"What about the other ladies?"

"The bridal party. Gonna give the groomsmen a thrill, I bet."

Sam threw back his head and laughed. "You just can't have a normal life, can you?"

"Always told you normal was overrated, Sammy. Highly overrated."

*****

John sat in the comfortable wooden rocker on his son's porch--a wide, meandering platform that curved around the farmhouse--and surveyed the distant mountains that made up the view. Dean--the wild son, the one he'd worried would just end up one day running the garage, still living in his room at the house (and hopefully not supporting a string of ex-wives and/or children)--was now the owner of an estate. About forty acres if the fencing was accurate. A five-bedroom house and a three-car garage. Deck and pool. Some kind of storage building in the back.

Mary's prince was now a king with his own damn castle.

John was impressed and if anyone wanted to pin a "Proud Papa" badge on him, he wouldn't break their arm. Well, not right off anyway. How could he not be proud? Dean wore captain's bars, worked in the Pentagon, had won the respect of his fellow officers. Coach Vanderpool kept up with Dean's success, called John up on occasion to mention which of his buddies knew Dean, saw potential in Dean, looked after Dean following the Afghanistan snafu. Although his son wasn't aware of it, Dean had many medal-wearing angels watching over him. That warmed John's heart because he never, ever wanted to feel like he felt those days Dean was missing. He'd thought nothing could match the pain of losing Mary, but not knowing whether Dean was alive or dead, that had almost broken him.

He rocked gently, the warmth in the fall breeze easing old stiffness in his joints. He'd always known Sam was going to make it. Sam would probably end up on the Supreme Court. Lord knows, he had an opinion on everything and wasn't afraid to share it. His youngest was all drive and purpose, never entertaining a major doubt about himself. Or rather, if he'd had a doubt, he'd taken it to Dean and Dean's confidence in him had totally erased it.

Dean always believed in Sam, but John reasoned the death of Mary had instilled in Dean a lack of belief in himself. He couldn't figure out exactly how that worked, but the changes in Dean after Mary was gone... The little boy whose every sentence started with, "Daddy, I can," had been replaced with one who shrugged or distracted with jokes whenever the future was mentioned. Thank God his little boy had found his "I can" again.

John sat up as he heard a familiar growl and two seconds later, the Impala appeared in the last curve of the road before it got to the house. He couldn't help but grin. Dean and the Impala. John would swear on a stack of Bibles that the Impala had survived twenty years of bad driving and sitting in a scrap yard just so it could be there for Dean. What he'd never told Mary was that he'd had the car long before he'd driven it home. He and Dean had gone to salvage yards on the weekend like women went to yard sales, just looking for stuff that might be needed at the garage. It was "Winchester men time" and Mary had just laughed and gave them a quick kiss each Saturday morning.

The Impala had been hidden behind a deck of smashed cars. John had been alerted to its presence by a shrill, "Look, Daddy!"

John swiped a finger across the dust coating the vehicle. Been there a while. "Think the old gal's got some good parts left in her, Deano?"

Dean had leaned his cheek against the door and shook his head. He'd definitely have to be cleaned up before Mary saw him. "She's mine, Daddy. All of her. Pretty, pretty." He tugged on the door, but it wouldn't open.

John thought it might be locked, but found that the Detroit steel was just too heavy for a three-year-old to handle. As soon as the door creaked open, Dean slid in behind the wheel and made engine noises. John popped the hood and took a look. The engine appeared surprisingly solid and intact beneath a heavy layer of grime. The battery was rusted, the spark plugs shot, but all in all, not bad. He slid into the passenger seat beside his still-driving son. Interior wasn't bad either. A little leather soap, the removal of the eight-track deck... "Hey, Deano, remember that face you made when Mommy couldn't decide whether we should go to the Chiefs game or not?" That pout, those sad green eyes. "Let's go see a man about a car, shall we?"

"Dad! You should've called." Adult Dean got out of the Impala and walked toward the house.

"The old man gonna be cramping your style?" Maybe Dean had plans. The boy never seemed to be without available female companionship.

"Hell, no. I just could've left work early. How long you been here?" He opened the door and ushered John inside.

"Not long. Had a White Lady in West Virginia. Thought I'd stop by for a visit. Not a problem, is it?"

"Nah. Beer's in the fridge. If you see anything else you want, go for it. I'm just gonna go get out of this fucking tie."

John started to walk away, but noticed a faint pattern in the hardwood flooring. "Is that--?"

Dean turned and followed John's gaze to the floor. "Yeah, me and Sammy put it in this past summer. It's at all the entrances so that it forms a repeating symmetrical motif or some shit of a term Sam came up with from helping Jess with a design project. So, it's not only useful, it makes the house 'trendy,'" he added with a grin.

The pattern was that of a Devil's Trap. "What's it made of?" The design was only slightly paler than the wood and really wasn't that noticeable.

"First, we burned the design into the wood, then we filled in the lines with a salt and resin mixture. Damn stuff was so thick we had to use a caulk gun. Afterwards, we just varnished the whole floor."

John was in awe. "Pure genius. I thought I was smart when I had the traps made out of wrought iron and placed across from doors. But this, you'd have to tear of the floor to break the trap. Damn."

Dean grinned. "Sammy came up with the concept and I came up with the execution. Guess Sam and I make a dangerous team. But don't look down on your wrought iron idea. The one you gave me as a housewarming gift is now in my office."

John snorted. "Considering where you work, it must be trapping half the people who come through your door."

Laughing, but not making any denials, Dean turned to leave the room.

John found a bag of chips and was comfortably ensconced in a leather recliner in front of the big screen TV when his son returned, stripped down to T-shirt and sweats.

"Here you go." Dean tossed something in his direction which he caught instinctively. It was a key to the house. John arched an eyebrow. "Sam has one. Charity has one. Flip has one. Jess will get hers when Sam finally puts a ring on her finger. Guess bunking with you and Sam all those years makes me nostalgic for a full house."

"You could easily solve that."

"Nah. I'm leaving the wife and babies to Sam. Settling down isn't for me."

Well, there went that concern about a string of ex-wives and children. John gestured to their surroundings. "Then what is this?"

"Refuge for whoever needs it."

"Do you need it, son?" They'd never talked about Afghanistan. Of course, he knew about the damage to Dean's lungs. Waterboarding done right was a bitch and when done wrong... He'd assumed if there were any lingering mental problems, the Army shrinks had taken care of them. However, now that he thought about it, he should've been encouraging Dean to talk to him while he was recuperating instead of going off on hunts. He sighed internally, wondering if hed ever get it right with Dean.

"I'm okay, Dad. People I've had to talk to--" so there were Army shrinks-- "say that I have a 'caretaker' personality. Because I couldn't save Mom, I want to save everyone else. I _justify_ my existence by taking care of you and Sam and whoever else I think needs my help. I actively need others who count on me. S'why I've always had a tendency to pick up strays--hookers, geeks, orphans..." Dean headed toward the kitchen. A moment later he was back with a couple of beers.

"Orphans?" John asked as he screwed off the top of what appeared to be a local brewery. Knowing Dean, he was probably helping out a friend by buying the stuff.

"Yeah. There's an orphanage a few miles from here. I kinda volunteer when they need extra people to take them on field trips or whatever. Therapy of a sorts, I guess."

John had no idea what to say. He wondered how much of a role he'd played in whatever problems Dean was having, what with the whole early co-parenting thing. And what was that Sammy had yelled at him about? Oh, yeah. Telling Dean he was disappointed in him.

"You're young," he managed after a moment. "True love will find you one day." There. Didn't that sound like a fatherly thing to say?

"It already found me. And left me November 2, 1983."

Fuck. What could he say to that? Oddly enough, he understood. There was nothing Oedipal in Dean's declaration. Mary's death had hurt her son, altered him, stunted the growth of something vital in his heart. John knew this because the same had happened to him. He figured Sam had been spared the experience because Sam had only lost a mother; he and Dean had lost Mary. Some would say it was the same difference, and he'd tell them to their faces that they were liars.

And speaking of liars... "Psychiatrists are a bunch of quacks." He took a long sip of the beer. Not bad.

The sad look in Dean's eyes fled as he gave a startled cough/laugh. "I'll be sure to tell them that."

John shook his head. "I'm serious. There's nothing wrong with you taking in strays--it just means you have your mother's heart."

"Mom liked strays?"

"That's how she found me. I was fresh back from 'Nam, and I guess you know what that's like." Dean nodded. "Went to a bar instead of getting a bottle and going back to the room I was crashing in. Sat in the back, nursing it until your mom came and sat at the table with me. Told me she was there with a bunch of her girlfriends. Had a headache, but couldn't leave because she was the one who was supposed to stay sober enough to drive the others home and keep them from stumbling off with ax murderers and the like. I guess that was old school for designated driver."

"She was always so responsible," Dean interrupted quietly.

"Yeah. Gave me hell when she thought I wasn't." John fought hard not to get lost in his own memories. This was for Dean. This was stuff he needed to hear. "Anyway, said she was going to sit in the corner with me because I was apparently the quiet type and I'd be kind to her aching head. She rambled on softly about her life, the classes she was taking in college, and...I don't know, she just grounded me, brought me back to this world. I let her drive me home and the rest--and the rest is sitting across from me." He smiled at his son.

"So, Mom picked _you_ up in a bar? So not what I needed to hear." Dean grinned around the long-neck poised at his lips.

John took another long drink of the beer. Huh. He could get used to the mellow bite of it. "So don't listen to the shrinks. There's nothing wrong with you. You take after your mother and in more ways than one."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. While we were dating, she'd let people stay in her apartment--maybe they were mad at their boyfriend or a parent had kicked them out for one reason or another. I worried about the people that came and went at her place. Bought her a small .22 caliber S&W for Valentine's Day. Even wrapped a bow around it and had made plans to teach her how to use it."

"How sweet--and utterly Winchester of you." Dean's eyes sparkled with amusement.

John grinned. "Just wait 'til you hear the rest of the story. Mary looked at the gun, then disappeared into the bedroom. Thought maybe I'd made a big mistake, you know? A minute later she came out holding a Beretta 92 and her purse. Startled the hell out me. She started explaining how her dad had given the Beretta to her when she left home for school. It wasn't something she would've picked out; the kick was a bitch, but since she'd need only one shot to take someone down, she'd learned to live with it."

"Damn," Dean said admiringly.

John pointed at his son with his bottle and continued the story. "Then she held out her purse and slipped the S&W inside. She squealed and gave me her biggest grin because it 'fit so perfectly and hardly added any weight.' Let me tell you, son, whatever part of me wasn't in love with her before then, surrendered to her at that moment."

"So, you married a gun-totin' woman you met in a bar? Can I be you when I grow up, Dad?"

John laughed. It felt good to talk about Mary for once. Maybe because Dean was so much like her, now more than ever. His blond hair had darkened and his voice had deepened, but he was every bit Mary's son. "She was smart in math, too. Maybe that's why you had dreams of working for NASA. Whatever happened to that anyway? I thought about it when the Columbia exploded last year."

"Guess I _am_ like Mom--found I liked weapons better."

"I like your weapons, too," John found himself saying. God, how stupid was that?

Dean laughed. "Come on out back. I'll show you my lab."

"The out-building?"

Dean shook his head. "You remember Harriman?"

"The reason why--?"

"Not his fault, Dad," Dean said brusquely. "Anyway, Harriman's teaching Engineering at the Academy. We were sitting around bullshitting when I went up there for a football game, and he was talking about he needed a project that all the Engineering divisions could work on, a unifying theme instead of the individual challenges they usually have. So I gave him the scenario of needing an underground bunker and lab in case of surface contamination. I let the cadets use the farm as the site. Environmental had to factor in the space, the soil content, air patterns, and everything. Mechanical and electrical had to work around power sources. Everybody had a part. Impressed the hell out of the Academy. So, a crew from the Army Corps of Engineers came down and implemented their plan. It's a really cool prototype."

John grinned and rose from the chair. "Give me the grand tour, son."


	9. Chapter 9

2005

* * *

"So, tell me again why I had to pass up a private consultation with the most exquisite ATF agent in all of D.C. to come out to Cali and hang with my lame ass little brother?"

"A hunt," Sam answered, as he backed his Honda out of the tight airport parking space. As soon as he threw the car in drive, he handed Dean a folder. "Six women have been attacked in Palo Alto in the last two months. Five have died."

"And your conclusions?" Dean asked, indicating the folder that he hadn't opened.

"Twenty-five percent chance that it's a Spring Heeled Jack." It/They (no one was sure if there were several or if the one just regenerated itself after being "killed") had immigrated from London and showed up irregularly around the country, mostly scaring people with death-defying leaps over fences and buildings, but sometimes killing if bored.

"And the other seventy-five percent?"

Leave it to Dean to quickly get to the heart of the matter. "Serial killer--one-hundred percent human."

Dean sighed and pushed his seat back. Jess was probably the last one in the passenger's seat, so yeah, Dean needed to push it back. "Which is why I had to fly all the way out here even though Dad's in Nevada working a mine haunting."

"Yeah."

"'Cause Dad would say we leave human scum to the cops."

"Yeah."

"And you say?"

"Jess is due back from her folks in two weeks."

Dean opened the folder.

*

"Nice place."

Sam nodded and locked the door behind his brother. The apartment he and Jess were going to share was kind of tiny and, at the moment, way under furnished. Jess had just had enough time to agree to the apartment before she had to go home to be a bridesmaid in one of her high school friend's wedding. Sam was under strict orders not to purchase anything before she got back. He was renting a place to sleep by the week and a table was built into the breakfast nook/kitchen.

"Not all of us can have a country manor."

"Peon," Dean sneered, tossing his duffel into a corner. "So what's the plan?" he asked around a yawn.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded. "You know me; I never fly completely sober. An hour's nap will get the pill completely out of my system."

"That's good because I have a law school orientation session to get to. I'll be at least a couple of hours. Let me show you to the bedroom."

Dean dragged behind him, then snorted. "Bedrooms usually have beds, little bro."

"It's a futon. Just as good as a bed and cheap to rent."

"God bless the American taxpayers that I was never a starving college student," Dean quipped with another yawn. "You got an extra key to this crib? I may go out and do a little recon before you get back."

"Recon?"

Dean sat gingerly on the futon and heeled off his shoes. "I read your research, dude. Ain't no way in hell we're dealing with Spring Heeled Jack."

"It jumped over stuff when it was fleeing," Sam said carefully.

"Trashcans, Sam. And a bum."

Sam looked down at his feet.

"It's okay," Dean said quickly. "This is a danger to Jess. I get it. Taking care of this slime is not a problem for me. Ghosts and Spring Heeled Jacks aren't what I trained against at the Academy, anyway."

"Nothing too over the top," Sam clarified. He wasn't looking to add to the local body count, which would be easy enough for his brother. The Army had taught Dean that if you brought an enemy down, you made sure the fucker stayed down. That's why, although he'd never come out and said it, Sam was pretty sure the Afghani who'd taken Dean's team were no longer among the living. Not that he'd begrudge Dean that. It was always a risk when you tried to take something from a Winchester; one day down the road three men at Ft. Leavenworth were going to learn that lesson the hard way. After all, Dean had taught him well about payback. "I just want to get him, then hand him over to the authorities."

"Sure thing, Clark Kent."

Sam frowned. He didn't want to be goody-goody Superman. Still... "You and Batman like to blow things up too much."

"And your point is?" Dean turned over on his stomach and sank his head into the pillow.

"There are rumors this guy may have hit other college towns. He needs to be questioned."

"I hear you, Sammy. As long as he doesn't make it personal."

_As long as he doesn't come after you_, Sam heard as clearly as if Dean had spoken. He smiled at the protective Big Brother streak Dean was never going to lose and turned out the light. "Rest up, bro. We hit the streets tonight."

*

"And at the top of the hour, our story of the hour here on Channel 5: two brothers apprehend a suspect in the recent murders of young women in Palo Alto. One brother, a law school student at Stanford, and his visiting brother, an Army officer, heard a scream, rescued what certainly would've been the next murder victim, then took down the suspect with a stun gun. According to Captain Dean Winchester, the weapon had been purchased for student Sam Winchester's girlfriend for protection against the killer."

"Guess she won't be needing it now," another reporter chimed in.

"Guess she won't."

*****

"Dean, what the hell's going on?"

Dean crammed folders into the safe in his office as he struggled to keep the phone pinched between his jaw and shoulder. "I don't know, Sammy. I expect you got the same phone call I did: Son, I need you to come home. I tried calling Missouri but she didn't answer her phone, which means she knows I'm calling and she doesn't want to talk to me. That tells me it's not a life or death situation, but it _is_ serious. I'm clearing my desk as we speak while Evelyn's getting me a plane ticket."

"Think she can get me one that'll get us into Kansas City International at about the same time?"

"Hold on." He walked to the outer office. "Evelyn, Sam needs a ticket, too," he said, handing her his phone. "Put them both on my card."

He finished putting away sensitive material and grabbed his jacket and cap. Evelyn held out his phone as he walked to her desk. "Your flight leaves in two hours from Dulles. Sam's flight is scheduled to arrive half an hour behind yours. There's a car on call for you at the Avis desk. I didn't book any return flights."

"Thanks, Evelyn. I don't know what's going on with Dad, but as soon as I get an answer, I'll be in touch."

"Go. Your dad wouldn't call on a whim. If you need anything, call my cell--anytime, okay? Ed and I'll be praying for you."

"Thanks." He glanced at the calendar. "Oh, damn. I need to call the Children's Home. I'm supposed to chaperone at the Halloween carnival tonight."

"I'll handle it, Captain. Go take care of your family."

Dean gave a tight nod and left.

*

"You think a hunt went bad?"

"I don't know, Sam."

Sam gnawed on a fingernail as Dean drove to Lawrence. The rental was in Dean's name and Dean's single Tylenol PM--his current remedy for short flights--had completely worn off by the time Sam's plane had landed, so he was good to drive. "I have an interview for a summer internship on the third. It sounds bad that I'm worrying about getting back there in time, doesn't it? But these things usually aren't offered to first year law students and I'm really excited."

Although he'd visited the law schools in the D.C. vicinity, Stanford had come up with another full ride and he wasn't about to turn down their generosity. Also, since Jess was a year behind him, it made sense for him to stay. Jess, however, had already decided that she'd be going The Art Institute of Washington, which was in Arlington. She and Dean had already made plans for her to stay with him until Sam graduated.

"This may be nothing," Dean pointed out optimistically.

"This is Dad we're talking about."

"Well, maybe it's something that won't take a long time."

Sam watched the sky darken. He missed the long days of summer. "How'd he sound to you?"

Dean shrugged. "Tired."

"You seen him lately?" No, he wasn't going to feel guilty because he'd spent Fall Break with Jessica's family. Dad had probably been on a hunt anyway.

"End of September, I got together with him, Bobby, Jim, and a couple of the other guys and went down to New Orleans. Katrina got a lot of shit stirred up down there. It was like a tag-team match most of the week we were there. We were replaced by a relief team, and they'll have a relief team and so on. Very unstable situation. It's a good thing the hunter network is larger than what Dad led us to believe when we were little."

"Why didn't you tell me? I would've--"

"We know, but you'd just started law school and were just settling into your classes. Besides, it was like putting a Band-Aid on a punctured artery. There'll be plenty left for you to do if you wanna go down during Christmas break."

"I'll be sure to remind you about that." Jess was just going to have to understand he was needed at home. "So, Dad. He seem okay to you?"

"Geesh, Sammy! Did he look like he was dying? No. Did he seem depressed? No. He just seemed like--Dad."

"Okay." Sam chewed another nail. "He's getting older, you know."

"No shit."

"I don't think about his age. He's been the same for so long."

"He's fifty-one, Sam, not ninety-one."

Sam fiddled with the power side-mirror. "Maybe he got bit by a werewolf."

Dean groaned. "One more word from you, Sam, and you're going to use those Plastic Man legs of yours to walk to Lawrence."

"You watched way too much TV as a kid." Dean flicked the turn signal as if he was going to pull over. "I'm just saying," Sam muttered. "You ever have dreams, Dean? Dreams so real that you're not sure if they're dreams or not?"

"You been dreaming about Dad?"

"No. Jess. About Jess dying."

Dean shot him a glance. "You two doing okay?"

"Yeah, man, we're great. I've even found the ring I want to give her."

"So, these dreams?"

"She dies. Like Mom."

"Oh." He could tell Dean was searching desperately for something to say. "Maybe it's the marriage thing. A Winchester wife thing. Latent fear and all that bullshit."

"Maybe."

*

"Say that again, Dad." Sam thought he heard his father correctly, but he wanted to be sure. He _needed_ to be sure.

"There was a poltergeist in our old house. Missouri and I went to take care of it. That's when..."

"That's when you saw...Mom?" Dean asked, his voice breaking. "She's there? She's been there, trapped in that house all these goddamned years? Why didn't we know this? Why didn't _you_ fucking know this, Dad!" He took a step toward Dad.

Sam grabbed his arm. "Back off, Dean!"

"Back off? He's been doing salt-and-burns for years now. Why didn't you--"

"Because there was nothing left to salt, Dean!" Dad yelled. "We didn't bury anything but an empty fucking casket!"

"Then how is she...?" Sam asked.

"Missouri says she's attached to the house."

"Almost twenty-two fucking years to the day," Dean muttered. "She's been there abandoned, goddamnit, for twenty-two years." He slammed his hand against the door jamb.

Sam flinched and looked worriedly around the room. It seemed that he was the least affected of the Winchester men. Dean looked ready to strike out at anyone who came near him. Dad looked--hell, he'd never seen John Winchester so shaken...so lost. Guess it was up to him to get the ball rolling. "How do we fix this, Dad? How can we make it right? How can we--how can we give Mom some peace?"

Dad looked grateful for the question. "Missouri thinks she's stayed to make sure the two of you are okay. She was happy to see me, but she was looking for her boys. I...I told her about you, and that I would bring you to her. We'll just go over to the house and--"

"I can't," Dean said softly before bolting from the house.

Dad sighed. "I knew he wasn't going to take this well."

"Mom's a lot more real to him than to me. I don't remember her at all, just stuff that you guys have let slip over the years."

Dad gave a bitter chuckle and sat down at the kitchen table. His hand shook as he reached out to fiddle with the salt shaker. "We're not a family of talkers. In fact, Dean barely spoke a word for months after her death. When he finally started talking, I figured I wasn't going to push my luck, so your mom became a non-topic. That was probably wrong. Wasn't the first time I screwed up being your father."

"You the did the best you could, Dad. And it was Dean who told me that, so I don't think he's really upset with you. He's just--reacting."

"I know. I don't blame him for being angry. It never occurred to me that Mary... Dean loved Mary with a devotion that only little kids can have. You'll find out when you and Jess... Oh, your kids will love you, but for the first years of their lives, you're gonna come in second to their mama. That's the kind of love that was ripped away from Dean."

"Maybe I should go--" Sam pointed toward the door Dean had used.

"Sure, son. You know, you gave that same kind of devotion to Dean."

"Yeah. He earned it, just like Mom."

"Just like Mom."

Sam shut the door quietly behind him.

*

"I want my car," Dean said quietly as Sam approached him. He was sitting on the hood of the rental.

"She's probably missing you, too." Sam looked up at the sky, seeking familiar constellations. When he was a kid, he'd checked out a book on the stars and annoyed his Dad and Dean with all his newfound knowledge. It's a wonder they hadn't smothered him in his sleep.

"You would've taken care of her if I hadn't have returned from Afghanistan, right?"

As if he could have stood the sight of the Impala without Dean. "You know it."

Dean stared off into the distance, eyes glinting in the glow of a streetlight. "I made sure to never even be on the street of our old house, Sam. The memory was bad enough in my dreams. I didn't want it in my reality."

"You know if Dad had any idea--"

"I know. We Winchesters are good with avoidance."

Sam climbed onto the hood beside his brother. Piece of Japanese crap was probably going to dent. At least _his_ piece of Japanese crap actually had some metal in it. "She needs to be at rest, Dean."

"I know. Duty. Honor. Country."

"What?"

"West Point motto. It's my duty, Sam, to see to her rest. I want our mother at peace."

"We'll make sure that happens, bro."

Dean took a deep breath. "Go get Dad. This needs to happen tonight. Tomorrow is All Saints Day. I want her in heaven by then, or at least knocking on the fucking door."

Sam nodded. "Dean, do you think--maybe this is the reason I've had the dreams about Jess?"

"Could be. Maybe we'll end a lot of nightmares tonight, Sammy."

*

"How you doing, Dad?" Sam asked as his father stumbled into the kitchen. "Coffee's made. I'll pour you a cup."

"How's Dean?" Dad rasped. He pulled a chair from the table and turned it around before sitting. He leaned forward against the tall back like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Out for his morning run. He's a closet masochist, you know."

"Charity told me that." Sam's jaw dropped to the ground and his dad laughed. "I'm just playing with you, boy."

"Don't do that," Sam complained. "It was bad enough when Dean told me you and Charity 'had a night.' I know I spent my childhood whining about you keeping stuff from me, but you were right, okay? There are some things I _don't_ need to know." Dean had told him during the middle of a DVD they were watching. There had been popcorn and beer ejected from Sam's mouth. Jess had not been amused.

"You're admitting I was right about something? Quick! Find a calendar and write that down for me. I don't think I'm capable of holding a pencil at the moment."

At least his father was admitting he had a hangover. "You and Dean put a hurt on that bottle of Jack after we got back." Sam handed over the mug of coffee. "Did it help?"

"I got a few hours of sleep. Don't worry about me, though. Bobby's got a big hunt planned. Put a few silver rounds in a werewolf and I'll be as good as new."

"And you wonder where Dean gets his love of guns and explosives." Sam bent to look in the refrigerator. Eggs. He could cook eggs. Actually, he could cook a lot of things, thanks to begging Dean for lessons and pure necessity: Jess sucked in the kitchen.

"Your brother can be a very scary man. Listen, he's gonna stay until I leave for the hunt with Bobby. So, don't worry about missing your interview. The two of us will take care of each other and Jessica can take care of you." He gestured toward the living room. "If there's something you want in that box of photos the new owner found in the basement, help yourself."

Sam shook his head. He'd noticed how much the drinking had increased when they started going through the box last night. Although most of the time he resented it, sometimes it was kind of a blessing that he didn't have the memories of Mom that the rest of his family did. "I'm gonna let you and Dean have first shot. I'll pick out a couple later to show to Jess."

There was a clattering at the back door and Dean walked in, panting. "You finally make it back to the land of the living, old man?" he asked, clapping Dad on the back.

"Old man? You should've woken me up to make the run with you."

"You serious?"

"Hell, no." The three of them laughed. It was a good sound.

"You got your flight back yet?" Dean asked, grabbing a bottle of water from the cabinet. Refrigerated water would just make him cramp.

"I just found out I was getting kicked out."

The bottle was half-drained by the time Dean replied. "Hey, dude, if I had a hot blonde to get back to, I'd be the one leaving. But all I have is a PA who tells me I eat too much red meat and has banned meatloaf for the next month."

"Good for Evelyn."

"Good for Evelyn," Dean mimicked nasally. "My body is perfect just the way it is."

"Sure, Stubby."

"How's the view from the top of the Empire State Building, King Kong?"

"I don't know. What does the underside of a wee mushroom look like, Mr. Leprechaun?"

"Bitch!"

"Jerk!"

"Boys!"

Immediate silence, followed by laughter.

Sam chose to ignore the shiver that crawled along his spine.

*

"The red eye flight. Man, I hope you aren't making Jess come out and pick you up at the airport."

The brothers stood just past baggage check-in. The peak airport time was over and the terminal was nearly empty. "Nah, she has class in the morning. I'll just catch a cab."

"See? You should've been in the military. If the Impala wasn't back at the airport waiting for me, I'd just call Evelyn and she'd have some poor grunt come pick me up in a humvee."

"That's abuse of power, Dean." Sam adjusted his carry-on bag. Thankfully he wasn't traveling with Jess--even an overnight trip required suitcases.

"Sue me, lawyer boy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "What'd you tell Evelyn, by the way?"

"That the owners of our original house found some things of Mom's and it threw Dad for a loop."

"Pretty much the truth."

"Yeah."

He double-checked his ticket and glanced at one of the overhead flight monitors. So far so good. "You two gonna be okay?"

"I'm thinking about taking him downtown."

Sam's eyes widened. "You think that's a good idea?"

"Charity's good for a serious distraction. And have you met Deirdre? She was a gymnast until she got knocked up and kicked out by her parents and her coach." Dean leaned back against the wall, bending a leg to place a foot flat against the painted concrete.

Sam heard some indignant anger in his brother's voice. "You can't make everyone do right by their children, Dean."

"Or by their parents."

Sam shook his head. He'd spent all day trying to make Dean talk about what had happened at their old house. Leave it to the Master of Contrariness to wait until Sam's flight was about to be called. "You didn't let Mom down by not knowing she was trapped in the house, Dean."

"She looked just like she did that night, Sammy. And her voice... I didn't think I remembered, but I did. Closure's supposed to be good for you, right?"

"And time."

"Knew there had to be a catch."

Shit. He wasn't used to comforting Dean. "She liked your uniform." Well, that was incredibly weak.

"She was shocked by your ginormousness."

This was definitely more familiar territory. "That's not even a word, Dean," he pointed out, following Dean's lead.

"Yeah, it is. Look it up when you get back to that _special_ college of yours."

"You are so full of crap." Maybe not his best bantering effort, but Dean seemed to appreciate it.

"I can't help it if Mom's jaw dropped because she had to look up so high to see your face. Probably was thinking it was a good thing kids didn't pop out fully grown or she'd have been in labor for twenty years just to get your big ol' head out."

"Dean, that's just so--"

"It would've been nice to touch her. She was so soft. Smelled like the flowers in the park we used to..."

Way to turn the conversation on a dime, bro. "She apologized to me."

"What?"

"Mom. The first thing she said to me was that she was sorry." It had bothered him, that she thought she had to apologize to him.

Dean frowned. "For what?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess for not being there for me, for never getting the chance to be my mother. I told her it was okay, that I'd been raised by two people who loved me." He smiled softly when he saw Dean's blush.

"Must be why she thanked me, thanked me for taking care of you and Dad. Said she couldn't have done a better job herself. But she could've, would've...should've."

"If she'd lived, I would've had a different life, but I doubt it would've been better, Dean." College had been an eye-opening experience. Taylor Wilson's family might have been an extreme case of a dysfunctional family, but there were a lot of students at Stanford who hated their families for stupid reasons. It'd shocked Sam to realize he was in the minority, that he not only loved his family, but he _liked_ them. How could it have been better with a mom? Or maybe...maybe it would've been better for Dean. And Dad. He hadn't thought of that. "Of course, I'm talking about me personally. Maybe if Mom--"

"Don't over think it, Sam. What is--is. I guess last night just got to me, dragged me a bit into the past. But it's not a place I want to live. The present is good enough for me."

"Me, too. But what really got me..." he paused and bit his lip, wondering if he should continue.

"What, Sam?" Dean urged.

"How much she was like you, or rather, vice-versa. God, Dean, your eyes, your smile, hell, even the way she hugged me..." Dean had hugged him, really hugged him and not some of that wimpy guy-hug shit, when he returned from Afghanistan, so he didn't have to remember too far back.

Dean smiled weakly. "Who do you think I learned from? And Dad's said the same thing. That I'm a lot like her. I thought he was just trying to make me feel better."

"He wasn't. Lying, that is. He probably _was_ trying to make you feel better."

The intercom announced Sam's flight.

Dean pushed off against the wall and gently shoved Sam toward the gate. "Go home to your beautiful girlfriend, bro."

Sam started to comment, then saw Dean twitch and attempt to hide it beneath a yawn. "Did you feel it, too?" he asked softly.

"Feel what, Sammy?" Dean's head lowered as he brushed at a spot on his khaki pants. As if the military allowed lint on their uniforms.

Sam waited until Dean looked up again. "When we were in the kitchen and everything was going really well... It was like someone walked over my grave."

"Just a residual effect from last night," Dean said firmly, folding him arms as if that would make him sound more sure.

"And your little shiver a second ago?"

Dean sighed. "Just...watch yourself, all right?"

He nodded and started to turn away. But he couldn't. "I dreamed last night. It didn't stop." Confession was good for the soul, right?

"Look, man, it wasn't just Dad who was thrown for a loop, okay? Maybe we're both just reacting to emotions. You know we aren't used to crap like that," Dean tried to tease.

Sam's flight was called again. He pulled Dean into a one-arm hug. "You watch yourself, too, big brother. And Dad."

"Always, Sammy. Say hey to Jess for me."

"Will do."

*

"Keep the change." Sam closed the door of the cab and stared up at the apartment that he shared with Jess. There was a flickering light in the bedroom. Jess and her candles. Usually meant he might get lucky. He hurried up the stairs.

"Back already?" Ernie Keller asked. Ernie lived across the hall. He was a slacker who enjoyed living off his trust fund and telling everyone how much it was. Too bad it couldn't buy him a personality. "You didn't give me enough time to sweep the lovely Jessica off her feet."

"Ernie, I promise you, if Jess ever wants to leave me to be with you, I won't stand in her way." Because that was _never_ gonna happen. Jess often paired the word Ernie with slime and other oozing forms of matter.

"You're a good man, Winchester. I'll even send you an invitation to our wedding."

"You do that, Ernie." Sam opened the door quickly and dumped his duffel on the chair. He sniffed the air. Smoke. Oh, God. Had Jess been trying to bake cookies again? He reached behind him to shut the door when orange light coming from beneath the bedroom door caught his attention.

"Jess! Jessica!" He raced across the room and threw the door open. Light drew his eyes to the ceiling. A drop of blood splashed across his nose.

And Jessica burned.

*

"I was gonna tell her, Dean. Tell Jess about Mom's death, about what Dad hunts. You were right; I realized that it was time, _knew_ that it had to be done soon. I was gonna tell her _everything_. When we got married there were never going to be any secrets between us. That's the way it should be, right?"

Dean nodded and guided him through the door to their hotel room. Sam had been silent through the funeral and burial, but had started talking in the car on the way back and hadn't stopped since. He needed the noise of his own voice to keep him away from the big black hole sitting in the middle of his head.

"Maybe if I'd told her when we moved in together last year--" He moved the curtain aside from the window and stared out at the trees and power lines.

"No," Dean said firmly. "Don't start down that path, okay? Jessica knowing wouldn't have made a difference. You being here wouldn't have made a difference. All the blame--all of it--falls directly on that sonovabitch demon."

Sam blinked slowly. "Stop reading my mind, man."

"Stop being such an easy read."

"I was a fence," Sam said softly. He walked away from the window and stared down at one of the beds instead.

"Huh?"

"Jess...Jess saw differently than most people, connecting objects to her impressions of those she met--maybe that's why she was good with designing. She said I was a double-walled fence, all straight lines and solid metal, both physically and spiritually. But both fences were so in line with each other, so perfectly phased, that it was hard to tell there were two of them. She was impressed by that, impressed enough to ask me on a date." He grinned at his brother.

Dean gave a mock cheer from his seat at the hotel desk/table. "Yes! I knew she was the first one to ask. I always did think she was out of your league."

"I've gone out with more than just my fellow members of the geek squad, bro, but you're right. I never would've asked her out." He sat on the bed and heeled off his dress shoes.

"So you impressed her with your lines?"

"Yeah, but it was my hair that sealed the deal. Said it assured her I had a fun side."

"Fun isn't the word I'd use."

"She said Dad was a wood carving, dips and curves worn smooth in most places, but capable of giving you a splinter if touched wrong."

Dean laughed. "That sounds like the old man."

"You were an enigma to her." Sam took off his black socks. Colored socks gave him blisters if he wore them too long. Jess had asked him what he was going to do when he was a lawyer and in a suit every day. He'd told her he'd just wear boots. That produced a frown he wouldn't soon forget.

"A man of mystery, huh?"

"The closest thing she could come up with was those Russian nesting dolls, you know the kind where a doll nestles within another doll and so on. But she said that wasn't right because the layers inside you were bigger than the outer ones. I knew what she meant, but I couldn't come up with a word either." Dean got up and fussed with the duffel on his bed, and Sam knew his brother was embarrassed by the admission. For someone who intentionally drew attention to himself, Dean had parts he just as intentionally hid. He didn't like people seeing past his carefully created faade. "She really liked the farm. Said she could see our kids riding horses there."

Dean nodded. "I was gonna offer the two of you some of the acreage in the south corner. Build your house the way you wanted. None of that cookie cutter crap."

"Jess...Jess would've liked that. Design school, you know."

"I know."

"What do I do now?" Sam choked out. Reaching up, he struggled to take off his tie. "What do I fucking do now that my whole future has literally...gone up...in flames? What do I do?"

Dean reached over and gently removed the tie. Then he handed Sam one of the sets of casual clothes they'd picked up for him at a local discount store since everything else had been lost in the fire.

Sam stood and began changing out of his suit. "What do I--I'm so lost, man. I don't remember Ernie pulling me out of the apartment or the paramedics giving me oxygen and sedating me. Ernie says they did."

Dean nodded and changed clothes, too. Sam found it easier to talk about what was really troubling him when Dean wasn't so focused on him.

"I remember seeing Jess. I remember you and Dad getting me from the hospital. I remember standing at the grave. I don't...I don't remember the between times, Dean." Dean tossed him a pair of thick, white athletic socks.

"It's okay, Sammy. There's not going to be a quiz or anything, okay? You might remember later or you might not. Either way is okay. If it starts to bother you, just come ask me. I remember. I'll remember for you." Dean folded Sam's suit and put his own dress uniform in its carrier bag.

Sam rubbed his arms at a sudden chill. "Another empty casket for the Winchesters. Do you think Jess..."

"We won't let what happened to Mom happen again. We know what to look for now. Dad and I will keep an eye on the situation. I promise you, Jessica will have peace."

"Good," Sam sighed. "Good that one of us will. Where's Dad?" He'd had the room next to theirs.

"Changing. Probably already down at the front desk checking us out. I think he wanted to give us a minute to talk."

"About what, dude? I...I'm not exactly operating on all cylinders right now." He shoved his feet into the white socks, wiggling his toes before putting on his battered pair of Timberlands. They were the ones he'd worn to Lawrence, the only ones not burnt to a crisp.

Dean opened the drawers and took out underwear and socks. My new things, Sam thought, because all the old was gone. Dean began packing it efficiently into the bag on the bed, his own duffel already in order by the door. "I know that. That's why I'm going to spell out your immediate future for you, and you're gonna listen. You have two options, Sammy, and only two. One, you go home with Dad, go to law school at KU, and train like hell. Or two, you come home with me, go to one of those George-fucking-something law schools, and train like hell. Because once my contract is up with the United States Army, the three Winchesters are going to hit the road and we're gonna kick some demon ass. They wanted our attention; they got it. Unfortunately for them, it's gonna be the last damn _want_ they ever have."

Sam nodded and scanned the room for anything they might've missed. "I'm sorry you guys have to--."

Dean stopped what he was doing and leaned against the dresser, his eyes capturing Sam's. "There are no 'have to's, Sam. You're my brother and Dad's son. That's it. That's all. Now, I have two tickets to Kansas waiting at the airport and two tickets to Virginia. What's it gonna be? Because there ain't no way in hell you're doing this alone."

Sam knew it wasn't really a choice. Not being alone meant one thing. "Virginia, Dean."

Dean nodded and hefted Sam's duffel to his shoulder. "Gee, and I had this big speech planned to convince you to come with me. And by the way? I didn't really have two tickets to Kansas."

Sam smiled, not the least bit surprised. Dean knew him best, even better than Jess...had. He frowned as another thought occurred. "Can I leave? The state, I mean. The police--"

"Ever the anal lawyer, bro. The police have already ascertained when your flight arrived and that you were indeed on it. They also interviewed the taxi driver who took you to the apartment and your seriously deluded neighbor who testified that you hadn't even shut the door before...That's how he saved you, by the way."

Sam gave a weak laugh. "I owe my life to Ernie Keller. No one should be uttering words like that."

"Hey, even losers win on some days."

"Wow, that's so deep, Dean."

"Bite me."

Sam opened the door to the hallway. "Oh, and, Dean, if I'm the anal one, why is it that you know everything about the investigation?"

"I knew you'd want to know and--" Dean stopped when he saw Sam wasn't buying it. "Fine. But if we're both anal, we come by it honestly. Dad cleans his weapons like it's a fetish."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?" He checked to make sure the room door locked behind them.

"Don't ever mention the words 'Dad' and 'fetish' together again."

Dean just gave an evil grin, and Sam started to believe that maybe, one day, everything would be okay.


	10. Chapter 10

2006

* * *

Sam threw his duffel in the Impala's trunk and turned around to give his father a hug. They were standing in a motel parking lot on the outskirts of New Orleans, where they'd spent a week trying to undo some of the damage Hurricane Katrina and the U.S. government had created. It was the middle of summer and hot as hell, but he was glad he'd got to come; they'd done a lot of good. Dean had nixed the idea of a Christmas hunt, and Sam understood why his brother had been so adamant about not going so soon after Jess's death. The depressive atmosphere would've crushed him back then. It wasn't settling particularly well even now. "Good hunting with you, Dad. You, too, Bobby. Still can't get over there was a rougarou running around the French Quarter--and nobody noticed!"

"The people down here are used to looking the other way," Bobby said. "Too much can happen when you notice things in a society full of hoodoo." He turned around when he saw Dean coming out of the room with his bag. "Those arrows weren't tipped with just silver, were they?"

Dean grinned. "Had a little special juice added to make sure they did the job."

"Where the hell you learn that?" Bobby demanded. "I know the Army ain't taught something like that."

"A voodoo priestess gave me some pointers." Dean said it casually, as if voodoo priestesses always helped out hunters.

"When did you meet a priestess?" Sam asked.

"Last time I was down here. We sorta hooked up."

Sam's eyes weren't the only ones to stare at Dean. "You know safe sex means more than a condom, Dean," Dad berated with a frown. He stood at the back of his truck, the weapons cache open, all the metal gleaming in the bright sun.

Dean held his hands up in submission. "Hey, _she_ propositioned _me_. Who knows what would've happened if I'd turned her down. Besides, she was _hot_."

"One of these days, Dean Junior's gonna get you into a whole lot of trouble, boy," Bobby warned. His truck was one space over, looking like an old wreck, but hiding an engine that made Dean grin when he heard it.

Dean just shrugged off Bobby's words. "We gotta hit the road, bro. Some of us have to be at work on Monday."

"And I've been selected to observe a Supreme Court Moot session being held this week." Only a few students were chosen to attend one of the Supreme Court Institute's moot courts for counsel preparing to argue before the Supreme Court. Sam felt doubly honored because he'd only been at Georgetown Law for one semester. The dean at Stanford Law had explained Sam's situation to his counterpart at Georgetown and had managed to get Sam enrolled for the semester. His continued education there was contingent on how well he did, and well, being selected to observe the moot indicated he was off probation.

"Aw, John, ain't you just so proud of 'em," Bobby cooed.

"My boys," Dad cracked, wiping at an imaginary tear. "So respectable when they aren't charging around a city with guns and crossbows or apparently doing the nasty with voodoo priestesses."

"And this is how I spent my vacation," Dean said with a sigh. "Next year--Miami Beach."

"Probably a water demon," Dad said dryly.

"In a bikini," Sam added.

"And male," Bobby said in agreement.

Dean threw his duffel beside Sam's and slammed the trunk. "You people are no fun."

Sam smirked and joined Dean in the car. They waved at the two older men as they took off. "I am so ready to blow this popsicle stand," he said, meaning every word.

"Did the big, bad rougarou scare lil' Sammy?" Dean teased as he headed for the I-10.

He flicked his hand toward the window. "No, it's just...This place is so sad, Dean."

His brother nodded. "The Quarter--it's coming back. It always comes back, but the other parts...haunted even where there aren't any ghosts. Nature can be a real bitch."

Sam laid his arm up in the open window, the sticky breeze cooling as the car picked up speed. "It's not just nature that did this. You know, sometimes I read all the conspiracy theories, and I wonder, man."

"Nah, Sammy. This wasn't something that was planned and plotted." Dean reached overhead and pulled his shades down from the visor. "This was arrogance and complacency and sheer laziness. Everybody was so sure somebody was going to do something, that nothing got done. This was being so sure that nothing could go wrong that when it did go wrong, nobody could tell their heads from their asses." He looked at the sunglasses, blew some dust off, then slipped them onto his face.

Sam tapped his fingers impatiently against the door. He should've known Dean wouldn't see a conspiracy. Dean didn't like to think humans planned evil. Sure, they committed it--it just wasn't planned. Which went a long way in explaining his intolerance of bullies. In Dean's mind, they were abominations, not the norm. Dark creatures planned to be dark; humans just stumbled into it. Yeah, right. "It's been nearly a year. What excuse are you going to give them now?"

"No excuse, bro. Now, they just need their collective asses kicked."

"Amen to that." Sam pulled out his own shades and slid them on. Should be a law against heading east in the morning. Except he'd never get to school or anything. "How'd you guys manage to get through last September? Pull your Army ID?"

Dean shook his head. "The Army wouldn't let me come. Said it was too dangerous for me." He snorted. "Too dangerous for a trained officer, yet new recruits and volunteers were running all over the place. And what about the civilians that were stuck here?"

"Maybe they were worried about your lungs, Dean. They weren't sure what was in the air," Sam said reasonably.

"Interested in buying a bridge in New York City?" Dean snarked.

"So you came down anyway with Dad and Bobby."

The Impala blew past a semi. Dean kept his favorite girl in excellent condition and had even recently switched out the cassette player for a CD one, reluctantly admitting she deserved only the best. The mullet rock, however, had not changed.

"They had some fake IDs. Got us to places we needed to be. Never seen so many recently dead too dazed to go where they were supposed to go. They weren't so much angry as they were confused. Some day down the road, the angry _are_ gonna rise and that's gonna be a mess."

Sam shivered. New Orleans and the surrounding bayous were dark enough without a new group of pissed off spirits. "We'll definitely have to keep an eye on this place."

"Yeah."

Sam slipped in a disc, and they both let it drown out the sorrow.

*****

"I never wanted this for my boys," John said, slumping behind the wheel of his truck. "Never wanted one of them to live with the pain of losing someone like I lost Mary." He glanced over at the passenger's seat. "And don't give me that 'divine plan' crap."

"I was just going to say that Sam will go on just as you have," Jim Murphy commented softly. "You are an incredibly strong family."

John sniffed indifferently. "So, how'd it go with the Moores?"

"Very nice people. They were genuinely glad to hear that Sam was doing okay. There's no residual blame or resentment there at all."

"Good, 'cause I wouldn't wanna have to kick their asses." He cocked an eyebrow at his partner, waiting to see if he was going to call him on his language.

As he expected, Jim ignored him. "I explained to them that I was Sam's personal pastor and when I found myself in the area, I just thought I'd stop by to see how they were coping. I scanned the house. Jessica's not there."

"And hopefully, she's not here." They were parked in front of the apartment building Sam had shared with Jess. It was Halloween, the night when the veil between the natural and supernatural was the thinnest. If his almost daughter-in-law was still hanging around, she'd make an appearance tonight.

A door closed behind them and Bobby walked up to the window. "The lights just went off. They'll be down in a second." A couple of college guys had rented the apartment. John had arranged for them to "win" complimentary beer passes to a nearby bar that was having a Halloween "spooktacular."

John figured the bar should be haunted just for coming up with crap like that.

Two guys came out of the building's doors. "What the hell is he dressed as?"

"A character from _Pirates of the Caribbean_." Two pair of eyes stared at him. "The movie, not the ride," Jim clarified.

John just rolled his eyes. Of course the movie. Duh. (If he primed Sammy just right, he'd probably get an answer he understood. And probably a whole lot of information he didn't need.)

Sigh.

"Is the guy buzzed already? Looka the way he's walkin'," Bobby said.

"That's the way the character walks. Quite colorful, don't you think?"

John shook his head. "How do you know all of this?"

"Not all my parishioners are pensioners, John. There are still some youth who appreciate the church."

"Sometimes brainwashing works," John muttered.

"What was that?" Jim asked.

"Let's do this thing," John replied, getting out of the truck.

Two hours later, John pulled up in the unloading lane at the airport. "Sure you don't wanna head out to Iowa with me and Bobby?" he asked as Jim looked around, making sure he had all his belongings.

"Gotta make it back in time for the Women's League Spaghetti Dinner. Trust me, if anything needs prayer, it's Mrs. Hamrick's garlic bread. Good luck to you and Bobby on your demon hunt."

"Good luck to you on avoiding food poisoning."

John watched until he saw the pastor enter the airport, then took off for the motel. In the parking lot, he pulled out his phone. "Sam, it's Dad. Jessica wasn't--she wasn't like Mom, son. Your Jessica's resting in peace, Sammy. She's at peace."

*****

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and threw down his pen in disgust. He was getting absolutely nothing done and wondered why he'd even bothered to show up for work. It was November second--a guaranteed "bad" day. He should've stayed home and blown up things in his lab. Or at least simulated it on the new computers the Defense Department had just added. But, no, he was at his office because he couldn't convince Sam to stay home, too.

"Dean, you know Georgetown did me a favor letting me in. So I have to show up, okay? I have to ace my courses. I can't be a slacker."

"No one would call you a slacker for taking the day off, Sam, not this day." No matter how much Sam denied it, the first year anniversary of Jessica's death had to be giving him hell. He knew for a fact Sam had had to interview with the school's Counseling and Psychiatric Services before they allowed him in. Dean also knew for a fact they would write him a medical leave of absence for the day. There'd been too many students going postal lately for them not to.

Sam had shook his head. "I need to do this, Dean. I need to have something else to focus on. I need to see something that isn't Jess on the ceiling."

Dean winced at the bluntness of that. "Okay, man, I get it. Let me grab my jacket and cap."

"I can drive myself in today."

Dean sighed. "And pay ten dollars just to park your car?"

"The Park and Ride lot is--"

"Just shut up and get your books."

Georgetown's Law School was located in downtown D.C. with very limited parking, except for the expensive deck nearby. Since the Pentagon Station for D.C. Metro Rail System was located directly below the Pentagon, Sam just drove in with Dean in the mornings and met him at the Impala at the end of the day. Since Sam had decided to major in Environmental Law, they joked it was the "green" thing to do.

But there had been no joking this morning. They'd listened to the traffic report all the way into Arlington, then he'd nodded goodbye to Sam and headed into his office--where he had accomplished nothing, except for some balls of paper in the trashcan. It wasn't like he enjoyed doing funding reports anyway. Briefly, he thought about calling his dad and seeing how he was faring on this Day of Days, but John was on his way from California to somewhere with Bobby. Who knew what time zone he was in; he didn't want to wake the man if he'd managed to get some sleep.

However, as he glanced at the clock, he realized Sam had just finished his morning class. Surely, a call would be a welcomed distraction--unless Sam had already made it to the Law Library where all things cell phone were forbidden. Nah, they never got out of class early and even Sam's long legs couldn't have carried him to the other building yet.

Just as he reached for the phone, it buzzed, signaling Evelyn was trying to contact him. "Yes?"

"Captain, Sam's on Line One. He doesn't sound too good."

"Thanks, Evelyn." Dean jabbed the correct button. "Sam, what's wrong?"

"Dean...a vision."

"You fell asleep?" Since Jessica's death, Sam had had a few prophetic dreams which had him waking up screaming. It had scared the shit out of him the first time, but they were learning to live with it.

"No, I was awake. Just walking down the hall and...ahhh."

"Sam!"

"God, it hurts, Dean!"

"Where are you?"

"The bathroom. I had to throw up."

"Do you need help? Should I call someone to escort you to the infirmary?"

"I--I'll be okay. I think I'm having a migraine. I just wanna go home and crawl into bed."

"That's doable. I'm on my way. I'll call again when I get into the city, okay? Probably have to park at the Army Corps of Engineers building across the street. If you feel better, see if you can make it to the doors on that side of the school. Okay?"

"Okay."

Dean picked up his jacket and cap and flew out of his office. "Evelyn, Sam's had some kind of migraine attack. I need to go get him."

"Of course, sir."

Dean cursed the city traffic as he maneuvered the congested streets and waited on very slow moving pedestrians. Finally, he arrived at the Army Corps of Engineers headquarters and rolled down his window to flash his I.D. and explain his temporary mission.

"Captain Winchester," the corporal on duty said as he scanned Dean's I.D. "The Pentagon has already called and requested our assistance. If you leave me your keys, you can go get your brother while I move your car."

"Thank you." Dean added a silent thank you to Evelyn as well.

It didn't take long to find Sam and get him bundled into the car. As they made their way toward home, Sam seemed to get a little better. "It's the demon, Dean."

"Which demon?"

"Our demon."

Dean's eyes widened. "The one who killed..."

"Yes. He's gonna do it again." Sam closed his eyes. "There's a nursery. The clock on the wall suddenly stops. There's a baby girl in her crib with a mobile that begins moving on its own. A shadow. It's a man walking towards the crib. He--he has yellow eyes, Dean. Then a woman comes into the room. The mother? She sees the demon standing over the crib. She questions the man and suddenly she's pinned against the wall. Then she moves up to the ceiling. She cries out a name. Rosie? The baby's name is Rosie. The mother... A pool of blood appears at her waist. The nursery goes up in flames."

"Damn. You saw all of that?"

Sam nodded, grimacing. "Jess...Jess died like that. Mom, too. It's him, Dean. He's back."

"Fuck. We have to call Dad. Any idea where--"

Sam shook his head and groaned at the action. "It's a nursery. There's only children's books and toys. Nothing to tell me where they are. Fuck it! What good is this if I can't--"

"You saw a clock," Dean interrupted quickly. "What time was on it?"

"Huh?"

"You said the clock on the wall stopped. What time was it?"

Sam took a deep breath and concentrated. "Ten to nine."

"Then either it happened hours ago, and there's nothing we can do about it. Or we have hours to figure it out."

"Night because there's a window and it's dark outside. If he's using the same M.O. as Mom and Jess, it'll be tonight."

Dean smiled. "Then we have time. I'm going to call Dad. He and Bobby have this theory about weather patterns predicting demon attacks or some such shit. Maybe they can trace this thing."

"Pull over first."

"Why? You gonna hurl?" Dean asked in a panic.

"No, I'm not about to despoil your car," Sam said with a hint of amusement. "But you aren't just asking Dad what he wants for dinner. You need to concentrate, and I rather you not do it while traveling at eighty miles per hour down the I-66."

"You're such a girl," Dean complained as he signaled to take the next exit. In a vacant parking lot, he pulled out his cell and hit the speed dial. "Dad? Yeah, I'm sure you're doing fine, but that's not why I'm calling. Sam's just had a vision...No, he was awake this time. A demon in a nursery...No, nothing in the nursery gave him a clue about where it is. I thought your weather theory might...Really? The baby's name is Rosie, if that helps...Dad, you have until just about nine, at least that's when the clock stops...Okay, I'll tell Sam. Keep us informed...Yeah, you be careful, too. Bye."

"Well?" Sam asked anxiously.

"He and Bobby are already on their way to Salvation, Iowa, tracking some freak storm. They'll look for a Rosie there. When we get home, we can hit the computer, see if we can't find a Rosie born six months ago."

"Just like me. God, Dean, is this why this is happening to me? Did the demon do something to me before he killed Mom? Am I--"

"Just shut it, Sam!" Dean started the car with a vicious turn of the key. "There's nothing wrong with you, okay? I mean, look at me. I'm the one who's had the CYA alert for years. It's just a family thing. Nothing to do with demons, see?"

"Yeah, I guess so. But at least your freaky power doesn't give you a headache."

"Just sit over there and rest. We'll be home soon." He turned the radio on a soft jazz station and let the music do its work.

While Sam slept, Dean tried hard not to be scared. He'd told no one the full story of the voodoo woman in New Orleans. Yeah, he'd slept with her, but she'd also told him things, things that made no sense at the time, but were becoming clearer.

He'd been taking an easy jog through the largely undamaged French Quarter early in the morning, trying to burn off the excess energy that remained from a night of settling spooks. The emptiness of the Quarter unnerved him; the missing liveliness ominous, the unnatural quiet menacing. Although the waters from the collapsed levees hadn't inundated the area, the surrounding devastation made it an island in the middle of nowhere. Power was sporadic, fleeing vermin had settled in, and the only people were diehard residents, news reporters, a handful of government agents, and an ever-changing guard of hunters whose main goal was to get rid of the "things" hampering the rescue/recovery efforts. All other dark happenings could wait until the living were taken care of.

The woman leaning against old, smoke darkened brick had been all toffee curves and hazel eyes. She'd smiled and beckoned to him. He couldn't resist.

"The spirits, they tell me you'd be passing by," she said in a whiskey-rough drawl.

He grinned and looked her over appreciatively. "They tell you anything else?"

She held out her hand and pulled him toward an open door revealing steep stairs disappearing into darkness. "They tell me lots of things."

Dean thought a lot with his small brain, but his larger one also had a say. "Ma'am," he said respectfully, taking in all the symbols and sigils she was sporting and knowing she wasn't a person he wanted to offend, "I don't want to appear to be rejecting your hospitality, but this is awfully sudden."

She laughed. "My name is Lalah, Dean, and I've been waiting for you." He froze and his hand reached for the knife at the small of his back. She tsked and shook her head. "I'm no danger to you, hunter. We merely have gifts we must share, gifts that will benefit both of us along our respective journeys. You have the word of a conjure woman. You will not dispute that, will you?"

He shook his head. He was cautious but no fool.

She was talented, but he was no slouch either and the morning was passed quite energetically and satisfyingly. When he was dressed, she took him into the cellar and pointed at a box. "Take it. They will help you with your 'toys'." He saw the box was filled with bottles and packages of powders. "They are labeled, and instructions and suggestions are in a letter at the bottom."

He recognized a couple of labels as those poisonous to a variety of dark creatures. He knew he should be bothered by her knowledge of him, but there was nothing he could do about it. Hoodoo, voodoo, or whatever it was called, was to be respected at all times. For all its chicken blood and dancing with snakes, it was just too powerful to dismiss. "Thank you for the gift, Lalah. What do you want from me?"

"I have what I want, Dean. The Father Mother Spirits were worried; if the rumors from Hell are to be believed nature will soon to be unbalanced and that is not good for the living or the dead."

The short hairs on the back of his neck rose. "What?"

"Hell thinks it will have a new leader in the future, one who will tip the scale in favor of the dark. What I got from you is assurance that this is a future that will never come to pass. The Guardians will settle now. The rest will follow in time."

"I don't understand," he admitted uneasily. Hell was getting a new leader? What had happened, or would happen, to the old one? And what did any of that have to do with him? Assurance? What the fuck?

"You love your brother, Dean."

He flinched when she mentioned his brother, liking this conversation less and less. "We didn't have to break your bed for you to know that. All you had to do was ask."

"But I could not feel the depth of your love without brushing against your soul."

"Is that what you were doing?" he asked, flirting automatically although his mind was far from trying to get her in bed again.

"Among other things," she replied just as cheekily. Then she sobered and cupped his jaw with her hands. "Hell disavows the power of love, Dean. That has always been its downfall. It will be this time as well. _Vous avez un grand coeur, un coeur puissant, un qui peut changer le destin simplement en battant. _"

"Sorry, darlin'. My knowledge of French is kinda weak."

She smiled and gave him a soft kiss. "You have a big heart, a powerful heart, one that can change destiny merely by beating," she translated. "Love your brother, Dean. Show Sammy the power of love, of devotion. Anchor him in it, bathe him in its light, your light. Darkness cannot exist then. It will be banished and Hell will falter."

"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded. What did Sam have to do with Hell? Why did she know him by name?

Lalah looked at him, a long finger stroking his cheek before she stepped back. "You are not ready to listen. The storms are too far away, the path not yet muddied and messy. When you are ready--when you are weary and tried and tested, despair at your heels--you will hear, and you will know. But hear the hope as well. Love is the answer, Dean. You are the answer. Now, go. Your daddy and friend will be looking for you soon."

Dean looked over at his brother, asleep in the car he'd slept in while in his infant seat, still smoky-smelling and bruised with ash twenty-three years ago. So many things had changed since then. They were both grown men, self-sufficient, capable. He was an Army officer, influencing what a million troops used to defend themselves. Sam was a law student, all but married before being widowed. They'd both already lived through what most never did in a lifetime. Missouri had described them once as old hearts in young bodies. He tried hard not to be jaded, to rein himself in when cynicism sneered itself into conversation. But he'd lost his mother and his innocence in one flame-filled night and the world hadn't been a safe place since then (according to his therapist, who he only tolerated because the Army ordered him to--and yeah, because he _might_ have some issues).

However, when he looked at Sam, none of that mattered. When he looked at his brother, Dean felt the same jolt in his heart he'd felt when his father had placed hours-old Sammy in his arms at the hospital while his mother looked on from her bed. The same jolt he'd felt when Dad put him in his arms and told him to get out of the burning house. Hell, the same jolt he felt whenever he saw his brother. There was nothing bitter in that jolt, nothing dark, nothing...scary. That jolt was love, simple and untainted. It was the one feeling associated with his mother that didn't come with pain and sadness.

Dean prayed that Lalah was right, that her Spirits knew what they were talking about. Because Hell was indeed planning something and, yes, it involved his brother. But if love was the answer, Sammy was safe no matter what Hell sent in their direction.

Sammy would always be safe.

*

Sam woke when he felt someone sit on his bed. "Dean?"

"Dad called."

Sam looked quickly at the clock. One o'clock in the morning. Midnight in Iowa. Damn it! "Why didnt you wake me?"

"We'd done all we could do, Sam, by finding out the baby's full name and address. The rest was left up to Dad and Bobby." Dean turned on the bedside lamp. One click provided low light.

"And?" In the dim lighting, he noticed Dean had the portable phone in his hand.

"They saved Rosie _and_ her mom."

"The demon?"

"He got away."

"Fuck!"

Dean shook his head. "I think that's a good thing."

"What?"

"I don't think we're ready, Sam." Dean looked down toward the phone. "This demon, Dad said wasn't affected by holy water, consecrated iron, or salt."

"So...Jess didn't...I thought maybe she'd broken the salt line and I wasn't there to..."

Dean's head flew up, his eyes glinting in the semi-dark room. "Goddamnit, Sam. I _told_ you it wasn't your fault." He took a deep breath and rubbed his hand across his face. "This freak's apparently on the upper end of the demonic food scale, and I don't think we're ready to take him on."

Sam understood where Dean was coming from. All the tricks they knew about demons didn't seem to apply to this one. They would be fools to go up against it without any advantages at all. Still... "It took him twenty-two years to resurface, Dean! What if we have to wait twenty-two more?"

Dean patted his blanket covered leg. "I don't think we will, but if we have to, that's what we'll do."

"You don't think--CYA, man?"

"Something like that." Dean arched his back and Sam winced as it popped. "Here's the plan. We spend whatever down time the demon allows us getting ready. We go at him full strength, and we take him out. No drawn out battles. No peripheral casualties. One single strike is our best bet."

Sam nodded, then smiled. He always got a kick out of Dean in G.I. Joe-mode. "So says Captain Winchester?" He heard what his brother was saying, knew it was sound strategy, but waiting was going to be difficult. He'd never liked waiting.

"So says Captain Winchester," Dean confirmed as he stood. "Back to sleep, recruit. And, Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

Dean was partially turned from him, leaning over the lamp as to cut it off. "You know, uh, you know I love you, right?"

Sam's eyebrows shot to the top of his head. Dean was not one to use the "L" word. What the hell? "Yeah, I know it, bro. What's going on?"

Dean shrugged and turned to face Sam fully. He looked uneasy, but determined. "It just felt like it needed saying, alright? And it's...sorta permanent, you know. Won't go away or anything. Won't change. Can't change. You get that, right?"

Sam shuddered, but nodded. "Yeah, okay. You know I love you, too, exactly like that?"

Dean gave a wistful smile and turned off the light. "Chill, dude, I wasn't trying for an Oprah moment. I just..."

Sam didn't know what had prompted Dean's declaration, and it scared the hell out of him, but decided to let his brother off the hook. For now. "Goodnight, Dean."

Dean walked to the door. "And, kid, the next time I tell you to take the day off..."

"Yeah, yeah. _Good night_, Dean." He hoped the darkness hid his smile. It didn't pay to let Dean know when he'd won. Or get away with calling him _kid_.

'Night, Sammy."

Sam snuggled down under his covers and thought about what Dean had told him. Rosie and her mom were okay. His freaky visions had saved them from the demon. That was good. The demon had escaped. That was sorta bad, but Dean said they needed the extra time, and the Army had taught Dean all about strategy and preparedness. Why they never used it themselves-- because Iraq was the fuck-all of fuck-ups--well, he guessed human war was more about politics, wasn't it?

And Dean had said he loved him. That had been scary, but...But he could feel the words burning in a little corner of his heart, a warmth that had always been there, but was now a bit more noticeable, shone a fraction brighter. It made him believe that one day, the demon would die and the Winchesters would prevail. Yeah. That definitely sounded like a plan, Captain Dean, sir.

"Bring it on, you yellow-eyed bastard," he murmured to the darkness of his room. "Give it your best shot. Because in the end, the Winchesters are gonna kick your ass."

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.


	11. Chapter 11

2011 (Epilogue)

* * *

Dean looked into Sam's room, wondering why his brother was taking so long to get ready. Dean had to drop him off at work and get to work himself on time. Or at least approximately on time.

His peek revealed Sam standing in front of the mirror, struggling with a tie. "Geez, kid, you did it better when you were six," Dean grumbled as he stepped into the room and took over. "You have court today?"

"Why else would I be performing self-strangulation?"

"It's not strangulation if you do it correctly." He patted the tie into place and took a step back to eye his perfect creation.

Sam sighed. "They taught you a trick at the Academy, right? The Art of Tie-Tying 101?"

"If that makes you feel more adequate, sure. Now, get a move on, Atticus Finch. Coffee's getting cold."

Sam eventually joined him in the kitchen. "So, what are you whining about to the judges today?" Since passing the Virginia bar, Sam worked for an environmental advocacy group. The pay wasn't great, but the cause was good and Dean wasn't charging Sam any rent. The only thing Sam used money for was the "it's healthy for you, Dean" food that showed up in the refrigerator and gas for the Honda that had given up the ghost two weeks ago--as if it had anticipated being sent out to pasture in six weeks. Since he and Sam would be hunting as a team, they only needed one car--and which car that would be had never been in question.

"Because of the drought, the courts have relaxed some of the water protection legislation in certain areas. So now, industries in other areas are trying to jump on the bandwagon, even though their properties aren't in the dry spots." Sam opened the cabinet and frowned before taking down a box of _Lucky Charms_.

"Feeding frenzy, huh?"

"Yeah. I think it's a good thing I'm getting out soon. There's going to be a lot of head-banging on this one."

"So, how'd it go when you told the office you're resigning soon? Did Donna cry?" Dean asked gleefully. He poured himself another cup of coffee as Sam ate a handful of dry cereal and drunk a glass of milk. He frowned but figured it was one less bowl to be washed. For a health freak, Sam murdered breakfast every single day.

It was the one reason Dean could tolerate him being a health freak.

"I don't know why you never liked Donna," Sam said after swallowing. "She's a great lobbyist."

Dean almost snorted his coffee. "Who hates the military and everyone in a uniform. When she wasn't simpering for you, man, she was all evil-eyeing me. Should've spiked her drink with holy water at that last bash you dragged me to."

"Like I could drag you anywhere, Lt. Colonel Winchester."

"You know, if I hung around another six months I'd probably be upped to full colonel." Getting his Ph.D had made him a hot commodity at the Pentagon. The Pentagon wanted to be seen as more of a "think tank" than a "war machine". It was like the Miss America pageant emphasizing the "scholarship" aspect over the "beauty" part.

"You want to?" Sam asked hesitantly. He left about an inch of milk in his glass and poured coffee into it.

Dean winced as he watched his brother spike the coffee with two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. "The office hasn't been any fun since Evelyn retired," he complained.

He'd originally thought he'd be in the Army until they made him retire, but he was content to leave. The life he'd made there, the friends, the contacts, weren't going anywhere. Ten years was longer than his required contract with the Army, and although they had pleaded and tried to bargain with him, he was leaving with their blessing. He'd explained about the road trip with his brother, how Sam was still in mourning for Jessica, and in need of distraction. Everyone had understood, especially those who remembered the bubbly young woman's visit. Besides, Dean was the Army's family, which made Sam part of the family, too, and family needed to be taken care of.

Speaking of family and friends... "Try not to have one of your freaky visions in the middle of October." Sam's pain-inducing visions of impending supernatural deaths had continued even after the yellow-eyed demon seemed to go to ground. When it was convenient, he and Sam rushed off to try to save the victims. When it wasn't, Dad and one of his buddies did the job as they had when they'd saved little Rosie.

Sam snorted. "As if I _schedule_ them. What's so important about October?"

"Pinky got the kids and me tickets for the Redskins opening home game."

"You and the kids? What about your brother?" Sam asked with a mock pout.

"As if Pinky wouldn't include you. You've been tailing behind us since you could walk."

Sam had to laugh because it was the truth. "I still can't believe how much the Redskins are paying him. No wonder he left the Seahawks."

"Actually, he left the Seahawks because I needed him to be on the East Coast and he owes me."

"He's the one getting you the tickets, how does he owe you?"

Dean topped off his coffee and straddled a stool at the wooden "island" in the center of the kitchen. "You know why Pinky's getting paid the big bucks? Because he doesn't let his quarterback get sacked. Why doesn't he let his quarterback get sacked? We were in fifth grade and had just started playing _real_ football, not that Pop Warner junior crap. Pinky had trouble understanding the concept of a playbook. He was getting all frustrated and glassy-eyed, so I pulled him aside and told him all he had to do was protect the quarterback. He could forget what this X had to do, or that O; all he had to do was protect the quarterback. Considering I was the quarterback, I made sure he had that planted firmly in his head."

"Of course you did." Sam sat on a stool across from him.

Dean gave him the finger. "So, we're playing the last game of the season. We're up by twenty points, less than two minutes on the clock, and we have the ball. I'm just going to fall on it to eat up the time, so I wasn't paying attention and neither was Pinky. Suddenly this huge blob from the other team lays me flat out."

"That's when you broke your collarbone?" Sam asked, nose wrinkling as he struggled to remember.

"Yeah. And let me tell you, that pain is a bitch you can't forget. Anyway, I woke up in the hospital and Pinky's there at my bedside. His eyes are red and his voice is shaky, but he puts his hand on his heart and says, 'I will _always_ protect the quarterback.' I didn't get sacked again until I was playing intramurals at the Academy." Dean took a gulp of his coffee. "So, this great career he has? My boy knows where his skills come from."

Sam blinked at him. "Sometimes you are so full of shit, it amazes me your eyes are still green."

Dean laughed. "You learn how to be so profound and erudite at those colleges of yours?"

"Wasn't Pinky voted Least Likely To Succeed in your class?" Sam asked as he grabbed the Pop Tart box already on the island from last night's late snack. "Well, I was voted Most Likely To End Up On The FBI's Most Wanted List, so we had some real seers in my class--not. What was up with that anyway? Nobody knew Dad had us throwing knives in the backyard and target-shooting." He watched Sam tear open the Pop Tart packet, then down one of the frosted rectangles, followed by a long drink of the treacle that was disguised as coffee.

Sam wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. "Mr. Taylor's Modern History class."

"The yearly project of your choice?" Dean grinned in remembrance of his favorite senior year class back in Lawrence. "I did the modern era of prostitution, complete with a Barbara Walters type taped interview of a blurry-faced Charity. Doubt that was one of the projects Mr. Taylor shared with the School Board."

"Well, some girl in your year did hers on serial killers. And she came to the conclusion that most serial killers were very charming, and I quote, 'like Dean Winchester charming.'" Sam took out the second Pop Tart. "It got around."

Dean thought about it for a moment and decided he wasn't offended. They'd been young back in those days and easily confused. "How come you know so much about my class?"

"Big brothers are to be emulated; little brothers are to be ignored."

"Oh. Sorry about that." He knew the names of Sam's nerd herd and where they'd lived--because he'd had to drive them all home about a hundred thousand times after Dad had given him the Impala--but that was about all.

"It's okay. When I was in high school, it was all about me, too--you just weren't around to hear it."

"Um, do you recall the cell phone bill that had Dad's head spinning and you calling out 'Christo' every five minutes?"

"Good times," Sam said with a laugh. "But it was an emergency. We'd lost the soccer championship and Cynda Richards had said I was too tall to go to prom with. Desperate times, man. Of course, then I had to pay back the bill by working at the garage--at minimum wage."

"Your own fault. Told you not to call before seven p.m." He checked to make sure the coffee maker was off. It was supposed to be automatic, but an exploded glass pot had taught him to never trust the timer.

"Geez, I'm glad most plans stopped those restrictive hours. Unlimited calling, my ass." He poured a glass of orange juice and downed it in a gulp. "So why do you need Pinky?"

"Pinky likes kids. He can fill in for me at the Children's Home. It'll be a good project for him, especially after he retires in a few years."

Sam frowned. "You got a lot going on here, Dean. Are you sure you want to put it aside to hunt?"

"Despite what the demon did, I got a good life, Sammy. I want...I want to give others the chance to have a good life, too. Whatever we stop out there, won't be hurting anyone again, won't be upending lives and futures. It's a fight worth fighting." He rinsed out his coffee mug. "Come on, let's get out of here before that sugar you just downed pops all your brain cells and you end up babbling in front of the judge."

"You trying to jinx me or something?"

"Would I do that to you, Sammy?"

"Yes," Sam muttered before tossing back the last of his coffee. "What if I did that to you the next time you have to present before the Joint Chiefs of Staff?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe it'd keep some of them awake enough to do more than just nod. Besides, what are you worried about, Mr. Smith? You'll just bat those puppy-dog eyes at the judge or jury, and you'll have them catering to your every whim. Haven't lost a case yet, have you? 'I'm just your average American man,'" he began in a lousy Jimmy Stewart impression. "'Taller than most, granted, but that thin reed-look makes me better able to represent to down-trodden guppy and the cute baby turtles whom I've been entrusted to--'" He ducked the empty box of Pop Tarts flung at his head. Grabbing his jacket, he winked at his brother. "Car's leaving in five."

He hummed and semi-sang Metallica's "Wherever I May Roam" as he waited.

*****

Sam followed the guard to the consultation room at the military prison and nodded as he was told the three prisoners were on their way. He refrained from tapping his fingers on the bolted down table, not wanting to reveal any of his anxiety. Dean didn't know he was at Ft. Leavenworth. He thought Sam was in Kansas looking into some endangered species case. Which he was. Dean just didn't know _he_ was endangered species in question.

The prisoners were shuffled through the door, shackled and handcuffed. Sam didn't know what they looked like before, but he thought they all looked a bit haggard. Good.

"Gentlemen," he said as their individual guards shoved them into the three chairs on the other side of the desk and clipped their handcuffs to the rods built into the table. He nodded to the guards and they left. Because he'd been honest with the warden--well, semi-honest, something about closure or some bullshit--and had attorney credentials, the interview was being considered attorney/client privileged and he could see the men without the guards present in the room.

"Who are you?" One of them asked. Sam didn't care about their names; the message he had to deliver was to all three.

"My name is Sam Winchester. I'm an attorney at law."

Another of the prisoners frowned. "Appeal? Somebody hire you for us?"

Sam smiled. "No, I'm here of my own free will."

"To do what? Write a book or something?"

A small shake of his head. "Does the name Winchester mean nothing to you?"

All three paled.

"I have an older brother named Dean, if that helps your memory."

Two of them looked at the door, probably wondering how far away the guards were. The third just glared at Sam.

"I heard the bastard got messed up over there in Afghanistan," Three said with a grin. "S'why he wasn't at our court martial."

Sam smiled back. "Seems your hearing is about as defective as your intelligence. Dean--Lt. Colonel Dean Winchester--is on permanent assignment at the Pentagon and consults regularly with the entire Joint Chiefs of Staff. Oh, and if you were speaking of 'messed up' as in disfigured, gotta say the ladies are just as crazy about him as ever. He's one of those men who just seems to get better with age, you know, like a movie star or something. Good thing he's my brother or I just might be pissed about it. You guys pissed?" Sam figured the animosity they had toward Dean didn't just come from his stunt with the Viagra. Sam had grown up with Dean; he knew how it felt to watch his brother walk into a room and instantly gather the attention of every female present. If these three had been the Academy's "big men on campus", Dean had probably shot that all to hell within moments of his arrival.

"Enough about old times," Sam continued, still smiling. "I'm here to talk about the future. You have approximately five years left on your sentences. At the end of those five years, you're going to walk out these prison doors and head to Alaska. Not Juneau, though. Too close. I'm thinking somewhere north and west of Anchorage--you know, the open frontier, so to speak. Plenty of opportunities there for strong, eager men."

"What the fuck are you talking about?' Three asked.

"I'm talking about I don't want you within a thousand miles of my brother and considering we're going to be traveling the length and breadth of the lower 48, you can have Alaska."

Three folded his arms. "And if we don't agree?"

Sam shrugged, his smile remaining the same. "Then you should consider this a warning. I mean, you know how far a Winchester will go to protect a friend--just think about what we'd do for family."

"Why isn't _he_ here?" Two said, surprising Sam with his ability to speak without Three moving his lips.

He stood and assumed what Dean liked to call his "convincing the jury" stance. "Because, oddly enough, some of the Academy graduates _are_ officers and gentlemen. You see, he thinks that locking you in this box of misfit toy soldiers is punishment enough. But in my opinion, you have yet to be punished for your _real_ crime. That's why you should really, _really_ listen to my advice. Maybe when you're in Alaska, I won't remember how I felt when I found out my brother was MIA. Maybe I won't think about how much it aged my father, how we both paced the floor and watched the clock. Maybe I won't dream about what it must've been like for Dean, watching two of his men die, being tortured." Wondering if he was going to see his family again.

Sam bent forward and rested his palms flat against the table. Hazel eyes demanded the complete attention of the three sets across from him. "The truth of the matter, sirs, is that if Dean hadn't come home alive from Afghanistan, we wouldn't be having this conversation." It took them a few seconds to understand what he was saying, to see the truth he was revealing--if Dean had died, they wouldn't have been far behind.

Stunned silence, yes, but after all the hunting he'd done recently, he could sense fear in his prey, smell it. His message had been delivered and received.

"Enjoy the tundra, gentlemen. I hear moose is the new beef."

He rapped on the door and signaled the guards. This interview was over.

*****

"Sam, come look!" Dean yelled excitedly.

Sam jogged across the yard and peered into the trunk of the Impala. He paled. What had once been a small section for hidden weapons in the trunk, now encompassed the entire length and width of the area. "You better hope we never get pulled over by the highway patrol," he warned, eyeing the array of weapons the trunk now held. The arsenal could probably take out a small country.

Awesome.

"Got it covered, lawyer boy. The Army was so bereft about losing such a young, highly productive officer that they made me an official government-licensed defense contractor. As long as I throw them a bone every now and again, I not only get paid rather well, but what you are currently purveying is considered 'work' and if any Smokey wants to get uppity about it, he can take it up with Homeland Security. Besides, I'm gonna be traveling with my lawyer. Isn't that why you've passed the bar in all fifty-eight states?"

He knew Dean was yanking his chain, but-- "I knew you slept through civics class back in Lawrence, but I had high hopes for the Academy. And no, I haven't tried in all _fifty_ states."

"Yet," Dean added with a grin.

"Yet," Sam begrudgingly admitted. So what if he found bar and performance exams challenging? And now, with so many using the same multistate exams, most of the time he didn't have to do anything but pay a fee to practice in another state. Not that that was an out for Dean to get into trouble. Being a licensed lawyer made it easier to get to documents they might need during a hunt--like burial and estate records. Of course, there was no way he'd be able to get licensed in _every_ state, but Georgetown had given him access to a wide network of peers, not to mention Dean and Dad seemed to know someone in every corner of the universe. Apparently the military machine was vast but close-knit at the same time.

He gave his own grin as he looked at the trunk again. "Dad's gonna be so jealous."

"Can't wait to get to Bobby's to show him."

"Man, we could've used this when we went after that Black Dog last month." Every time they went on a hunt, they had to make sure they knew exactly what they were hunting before leaving the motel because dragging around a bag of assorted weapons was a tad silly and slightly dangerous. One wrong clank and--

"Last month I was parking the car in the Pentagon lot."

"Oh, yeah. Guess it wouldn't have gone over so well, huh?"

"Ya think?"

"I think I know why the Army wants to keep its ties to you. If you ever got in with terrorists, the U.S. would be toast." Sam's eyes widened as he realized what he was about to do--he was, quite literally, going cross-country with an arms dealer. That was so--ludicrous. He found himself grinning as he thought of what his law associates would say if they knew "straight as an arrow, this country needs gun laws" Sam Winchester had a secret identity as a demon hunter and his own personal James Bond-style Q. "That's a whole lot of firepower we're packing, dude. Are those the demon-killer bullets you've been working on?"

Dean's hand hovered over the ammunition box. "Aren't they beautiful?"

"Dude, you being in love with your car is one thing, but your ordnance? Kinky, big bro."

"You know you want to stroke that Glock right there, don't you? See how firm she is, how she glistens beneath your touch?"

Sam always thought Dean could've had a career in the porn industry. This wasn't helping to change his mind. "Do we need to make a visit to see Charity before we head to South Dakota?"

"Nah, I'm good. The Winchester Ladies Cooperative set me up just fine the last time they passed through."

Sam shook his head. "How the hell did Tay get that legally set up? It has a tax I.D. number for Pete's sake."

"A cooperative is an enterprise or organization owned by and operated for the benefit of those using its services. The ladies throw in a percentage of their earnings which in return provides them with living quarters better than some sleazy motel, health insurance in the form of regularly scheduled exams, and a pension fund managed by Taylor 'Flip' Wilson, C.P.A. and Investment Broker. Thus, you have a cooperative, little brother."

"And what exactly is your part in the cooperative?"

Dean stood soldier straight. "I am the quality control manager," he pontificated. "And the occasional crash test dummy if you take into account Miranda's first attempt at a blowjob. Man, Charity had her hands full with her for a while. Good thing we convinced her to enroll in KU instead."

Dean Winchester--reformer of bad hookers. "You are one of a kind, man. Which is a good thing because I don't think the world could take two of you."

"Why thank you, brother. By the way, we have to make a quick stop in Baltimore. Julie said she'd string us up by our balls if we didn't come say goodbye to her, Flip, and J.D."

"I still can't get over them naming their son Jesse Dean."

"Well, Flip wanted Jesse TheFonz Wilson, but Jules wasn't going for it. Woman just doesn't like classic TV."

"Or maybe she's just sane--and didn't want her kid picked on when he started school."

"As if someone would pick on my godchild."

Sam gave a sly look. "You know why Julie picked you as godfather? Said the sheer fact that you're still alive shows you're the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet and her son deserves all the luck he can get."

"Smart lady."

"She was referring to the number of women who should've killed you long ago."

"I _knew_ she had a thing for me, but taking women from friends is not the way I roll."

"Is it nice there on your planet?"

"Oh, you are a laugh riot, Sammy. Learned stand-up in the middle of being all educated, did ya?" He straightened up to close the trunk.

"What's that?" Sam asked, reaching for the chain around Dean's neck. "Is that the amulet I gave you all those Christmases ago? Man, you still have that thing?"

Dean shrugged. "The Army only let me wear dogtags. Now that I'm a free man..."

Sam was touched, but tried to play it off. "And you call me a girl," he scoffed.

Dean laughed. "You know why I call you a girl, Sammy? It's Dad's fault. Remember when I got the measles?"

"And gave them to me a week later?"

"Hold a grudge much, man? Anyway, I was sitting at home, bored stupid, watching _Three Men And A Baby_. Dad comes in and tries to make conversation--"

"Before making the lamest excuse and leaving ten minutes later?"

"Yeah, his comfort needs a little work. So I said, 'I guess we're smarter than they are, Dad. We were just Two Men And A Baby and we did okay.' Then he said, 'Well, their baby is a girl so maybe they did need three men.' I said, 'Boys are better than girls, huh?' And he said, 'Not better, just less complicated. Tell a boy to do something and he does it. Tell a girl, and she has a hundred questions to ask before she gets around to it.' Then, as you say, he made a lame ass excuse and left.

"The more I thought about it, however--and remember I was sporting an awesome fever--it sounded like he was describing you more than any girl I knew. But I'd changed your diaper back in the day so I knew you were a boy. Then I turned to the Discovery Channel and they were talking about hermaphrodites and--"

Whap! Sam's hand popped the back of Dean's head. "Too much television, Dean."

"You _always_ say that. But, hey, it was educational television." Dean closed the trunk and walked toward the house. "Final check before we hit the road."

*

Sam scanned his room, making sure he'd packed what he'd planned to take. They'd be back before winter, so the light jacket was all he needed. His room. Dean had given him a custom-made bed for his first Christmas there, complete with sheets and blankets that actually stayed tucked in while covering his feet. Hadn't had those since his last growth spurt. He'd never admit it to Dean, but the gesture had made him feel loved and wanted. Nothing could make a dent in the hurt he still felt for the loss of Jess (would it really be _six_ years in November?), but having Dean to come home to, to care that he actually did come home, to talk to about nothing and everything, made each day a bit more bearable than the last.

And the military had taught his brother to be a better roommate than he'd been in Lawrence--Dean was neat, quiet when necessary (like when Sam needed to study), and mindful of boundaries (asking about the last lemon tart instead of just scarfing it down).

"You make us some meatloaf sandwiches for the road, bitch?"

However, nothing the Army did, formidable though it be, ever touched Dean's inner "charm." For ill or good, Dean was still Dean. "Yeah, and you could be more gracious about it, jerk. You think Evelyn could send us some via UPS or something every so often?" he asked as he joined Dean in the living room.

"One of the delivery companies has some kind of freezer box, with dry ice maybe? FedEx, DHL, somebody. Look it up when we get to Bobby's, geek boy. Anyway, we'll make sure to give her a call when we're swinging by here. I like the idea that this will be our HQ."

"Still can't believe Dad sold the garage, although selling it to Abe and his grandson-in-law is like keeping it in the family." That had been a shock. And Dad had told them so casually--during a garden variety salt-and-burn.

"Well, Dad hasn't worked there steadily since you went off to college, and I think making sure of Mom's rest, well, it just added closure to his life in Lawrence. For the past couple of years, he's spent more time here with us than there. Yeah, some of it was about training, but mostly, this has become home for him."

"For me, too."

Dean gave a sad smile. "Enough to understand it when Dad sells the house?"

"You think he's gonna do that?"

"I think he's working up to that point. A lot of memories there."

"Yeah." The house in Lawrence had been home for a long time, but... "But if both Dad and I consider this home, then yeah, I understand, and I accept it. You got any problems with it?"

"Nah," Dean said, his eyes shining. "So, you ready to go?"

"What about the munitions plant out back?"

"My _lab_," Dean emphasized, "is as secure as Fort Knox. Gen. Morrison's going to send people over regularly to make sure there's no suspicious activity." He grabbed his duffel and followed Sam to the porch. After locking the door, he set the alarm. Sam flinched at the sound of the beep. "You alright?"

Sam gave a vague nod. Hunting full-time was going to be different and difficult, and he wondered if he'd made the right decision. For years, he'd resented his dad's hunting, angry that it took him away from his family and his job as Dad. Now, he was starting down the same path.

If there was anything remotely "good" about Jess's death wass that they hadn't had any kids, that he wasn't in the exact same position his father had been in. The six years of training had been a strain--although he'd liked being a lawyer, was proud of what he'd accomplished, there was an itch and an ache that had only been eased and sated by hunting...and killing. If he had to make the decision to put aside looking for Jess's killer for eighteen or twenty years to raise children, he wasn't sure what he'd do.

No. If he were honest, he knew exactly what he'd have done if he had kids. He would've settled them here at the farm with Dean and gone off with his dad. Sure, he teased Dean about the reasons Tay and Julie had made him the godfather of their child, but he knew his friends saw what he did when he looked at his brother--a man who would be a great father. Dean wouldn't have any internal debates over hunting and parenting. Although he was just as committed to the hunt, it was obvious that Dean was in the fight for the living--the victims they could save, Dad, and him-- not the dead. He would set aside the hunt to raise Sam's children or J.D. in a heartbeat.

So, was it fair, in the absence of any children, to jerk Dean from the order he'd finally found back to the disorder of his childhood? Sam knew the decision was his; he knew that even at this last minute if he told Dean he didn't want to hunt, Dean would unpack and spend the rest of his life making weapons, volunteering at the Children's Home, and taking care of his friends. But the one thing he wouldn't do was let Sam go on the hunt without him for no reason at all.

Sam loved his brother, would lay down his life for him. But. But to let Jessica's killer, Mary Winchester's killer, roam the earth and escape judgment...that was unacceptable. _I'm so sorry, Dean_. "We haven't done too badly on our own, have we--the three Winchester men?"

"Nah. Mom was proud of all of us that night. And I think...I think she'd approve of what we're doing now. We're tackling this as a family. We're well-trained, well-armed, and we're thinking with our minds and not our hearts--mostly, anyway." They crossed the yard to the Impala. "So, you ready to rock and roll, Sammy?"

Sam thought about Jessica and their plans to move here to this Virginia foothill community to be close to Dean, raise a couple of kids, maybe convince Dean to do the same. Plans. Fate. All a crapshoot, really. The only thing real was the road you traveled and the people who were there at your side. "Yeah, I'm ready, Dean. Saving people and hunting things, that's our new family business."

"Don't forget killing as many evil sons-of-bitches as we possibly can."

"And kicking demon ass."

The brothers shared a nod and a vow. There was work to do. Duffels were tossed in the back, doors creaked shut, and the Impala roared to life. The road was calling and the Winchesters were ready to follow.

The End


End file.
